


Loved the Stars Too Fondly

by BroadwayStarletQueen



Series: Soul Set in Darkness Series [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Adventure, Betrayal, F/M, First Time, Love, Love Triangle, M/M, Romance, Treason, casefic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-15
Updated: 2014-02-18
Packaged: 2018-01-08 19:28:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 18
Words: 39,314
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1136489
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BroadwayStarletQueen/pseuds/BroadwayStarletQueen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John’s been reunited with Sherlock in Prague, and he’s eager to have Sherlock redeem himself after his time with Moriarty.  However, when a certain dominatrix seeks the exiled couple out, Sherlock and John’s reconciliation period is cut short by the workings of a case that brings them back to London and threatens Mycroft’s safety.  However, it’s hard to get a relationship off the ground when your boyfriend is trying to keep his brother alive and NOT get executed for high treason.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hi, loverlies! I wasn't intended to have a sequel for 'This Dark Thing That Sleeps in Me,' since I think I left the boys in a good place, but this story idea came to me after the crushing realization that we were on hiatus again.
> 
> I have to admit, it feels good to write Sherlock and John saying that they love each other when I never get to hear it. 'Sherlock is actually a girl's name.' That phrase is death.
> 
> It's not completely necessary to have read 'TDTTSIM' before this, but it's less confusing if you have. I reference it a lot.
> 
> Enjoy :).

_Four months before_

_“You really don’t seem like one of his,” Sebastian Moran said, not even bothering to hide his constant fidgeting.  He was a ruthless assassin, second-in-command to the most dangerous man in all of Europe—he didn’t spend time chatting in coffee shops._

_She frowned across the table and crossed her arms.  “What?  Because I’m a woman?”_

_“No, you’re just…you’re not really his type.  He doesn’t employ people like you.”_

_“Let’s just get one thing straight,” she said with a heavy sigh.  “I am not employed.  I am a volunteer—more than that, if this works out, I’m a bloody partner.  Jim cannot lift a finger against Sherlock Holmes without my help.  Not now that he’s in too deep.”_

_Moran scoffed and kicked at her chair underneath the table.  “I fucking knew it.  I knew when he started fucking the freak that he wouldn’t be able to see clearly.  It took him too long to realize that he was never on our side, and with this fucking tea party we have planned… It’s all going to blow up in our faces.”_

_“It’s not.  Jim knows Sherlock’s poisoning the tea.  He’s going to let him die, and John Watson is going to let him do it…  It’ll be quite poetic.  Sherlock will die knowing the man he loves wants him dead—and we get Mycroft dead out of the deal, too.  And the Queen. It’s perfect.”_

_“What about John?”_

_“John is one more tragedy away from being committed,” she insisted.  “Trust me on that.  Jim wins, John breaks, the Holmes brothers die.  Maybe you will, too, if I’m lucky.  I never liked to be around stupid people.  I’d much prefer a corpse to an idiot.”_

 

* * *

 

_Present day_

 

In the end, it was all because of a bicycle.

 

But John Watson couldn’t have predicted that.  He had the resolve of an ox and the unbeatable strength of a soldier.  Not just any soldier, but an _army doctor_ , a Captain of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers, fully knowledgeable about the human body and how to control and manipulate its reactions.

 

John Watson, the soldier, the doctor, promised himself when his plane landed in Prague that if he found Sherlock Holmes—if Sherlock was ready to be with him—that he would take it slow.

 

Yes, Sherlock loved him and had admitted such in the hospital, and _yes_ , John loved him, too, and that was the reason for all this.  That love—fragile, burdened with pain, riddled with guilt—would never take off if John wasn’t gentle with it.  There would be time to shag Sherlock Holmes through the mattress until that brilliant mouth of his could only say _John, John, John_ …  There would be plenty of days and nights of passionate, borderline insane sex with the most gorgeous man John had ever known…

 

Right.  He was going to take it slow.

 

Even though he couldn’t stop his heart from leaping and thumping wildly against his chest when he finally _did_ find him in a dusty, dark pub in Southern Prague, taking cases in the dark.  Even though he couldn’t keep the smile off his face when Sherlock was surprised to see him there, even though his pulse must have been audible through his skin when Sherlock leaned over the table and whispered that he loved him again.

 

 _Take it slow_ , he reminded himself when he was kissing Sherlock again.  It wasn’t needy and urgent, like it had been when they weren’t sure if they’d see each other again.  It was a slow burn, tentative, almost-painful from how delicate it was.  _Right, Watson.  You can do this.  It’s not going to be hard.  Be gentle, take your time, you_ have _time…_

John wasn’t so sure that he could when Sherlock’s hands reached up to cup his face and pull him closer, so he was extremely thankful when Sherlock pulled back from the kiss and smiled.

 

His grin glinted in the dark.  “Stop worrying.  It’s unnecessary.”

 

“I wasn’t worrying—”

 

“You were.  You were holding back,” Sherlock sighed, releasing John’s face.  “Are you trying not to scare me away?”

 

“I don’t mean to flatter myself, but I don’t think you’re going anywhere.  We’re in this together, now,” John said, but the moment was gone.  He sighed as well and grabbed his cane and coat, looping his arms through the holes and exiting the booth.

 

Sherlock was confused.  “Where are you going?”

 

“With you.  Don’t tell me you haven’t been aching to give me the grand tour of the Czech Republic.”  John gestured to the door of the pub with his free hand.

 

“Is that really wise, given your condition?” Sherlock asked, looking doubtfully at John’s grip on the cane.  “The streets here are cobblestone, and you’re not exactly in your prime.”

 

“Always a charmer, you are.”  John made for the door, smiling when he heard Sherlock come up behind him with the telltale rustle of his scarf and coat.  Feeling pressure on his elbow, he looked down to see Sherlock’s gloved hand lightly holding his arm.  “I’m not going to break, you know.”

 

“Neither am I,” Sherlock replied, and John didn’t bother to try and figure out what that meant.

 

“You don’t need to escort me like I’m your grandmother.”

 

“Now there is a mental picture I wish you hadn’t given me.”

 

“Sherlock.”

 

“ _Fine_ ,” he grumbled, dropping his hand from John’s elbow and instead reaching for his hand.  “Is this amenable?”

 

“Well, it’s better.”  John still felt like he was being babied, but when they left the pub and began a brisk walk down the winding streets of the city, he was grateful for the hand-holding.  Besides the stability it offered him, it also felt like a reminder.  _This is what it’s supposed to be like, with you two._

 

In a way, it felt too bizarre for words.  Sherlock was busy rattling off facts about Prague for John, about the reliability of the homeless network in the city and the architectural influences and crime rates and the best place to get a cup of tea, and John was silently listening and marveling, as he’d always done.  But now there was a silent reminder in between them that something was different.  Something that could almost be quantified by holding hands.

 

“You like it here,” John cut him off from a particularly excited sermon about the ingenuity of the Nymburk Strangler.

 

Sherlock shrugged.  “It’s not a horrible place to pass the time.  It’s not London.”

 

“If you were looking for a big city, why not pick somewhere—I dunno, why not Paris or New York?”

 

“New York, John?  Really?  As if I could suffer any more obnoxious tourists.  London has more than its fair share.  No, Prague is more—interesting, I suppose.  It has a certain artistry to it that I can appreciate.”

 

John nodded, understanding that.  “Is there any way you could go back?  To London, I mean.”

 

“No.”  Sherlock stopped in the middle of the street, which happened to be only about three feet across and cluttered with wrought-iron fire escapes.  “John, if…if you’re not thinking of staying long, if you want to return to London, I won’t stop you.  But I can’t return with you.  I’ve effectively been exiled under pain of execution for…well, you remember all of those things.”

 

John didn’t care to recollect them at that moment.  “I’m not going anywhere.”

 

And at that moment, a bicycle and its corresponding cyclist hurtled down the tiny street and yelled at the pair without slowing down, and John found himself being shoved by Sherlock into a brick wall.

 

“ _Di do hajzlu_!” Sherlock spit out after the cyclist, who shouted back an angry, “ _Polib mi prdel_!”  John couldn’t understand a word of it, but even if it had been in English, he wouldn’t have registered it, because Sherlock was pressed close against him against a hard brick wall, and with his cane knocked to the side, John had no choice but to cling to Sherlock’s arms to stay upright.

 

_Take it slow…  Fuck it all._

Sherlock turned his attention from the rogue bicycle to John, concern clouding his eyes.  “All right?  I didn’t knock your head too hard, or…or your leg…”

 

John had no clue what Sherlock had just said, and he didn’t care.  “Sod it,” he said breathlessly, and he closed the already small space between them with a ferocious kiss.

 

Sherlock made a small noise of protest before giving into the kiss, even though he hardly had a choice.  John tugged him down by the lapels of his coat and carded his fingers through Sherlock’s curls until he had two thick fistfuls, twining the curls around his fingers.

 

“John— _in public_ —” Sherlock struggled to say against the attack, but John only pulled him closer.

 

“Don’t care,” he insisted.  This wasn’t just kissing Sherlock Holmes, this was months and months of dreaming of seeing him again, of trying to remember exactly what color his eyes were and how he looked in a tailored suit and finally feeling those plush lips on his again.  John was drowning in how it felt to be surrounded by him.  Just to be safe, he kept his fingers rooted in Sherlock’s hair while Sherlock’s hands began to frantically explore John.  They traveled from holding John’s face with care to grasping his shoulders and trailing his fingers down to his waist and even cheekily grabbing two handfuls of John’s arse, pressing him even closer.

 

John groaned, feeling Sherlock’s cock through the layers of fabric, and Sherlock took the opportunity to move his lips down John’s neck to suck ruthlessly at the pulse point there where John knew it would bruise.

 

“How far’s your flat?” John gasped.

 

“Mmm…” Sherlock rumbled against his skin, sending delicious shivers down John’s spine and making him cling on even tighter.  “Ten minute’s walk.”

 

“Fuck, Sherlock…we should probably move…”

 

“You’re the one who started this,” Sherlock said.  He punctuated his point by reaching between them and fingering the top of John’s trousers.

 

“ _Stop_.”  John yanked Sherlock up from his neck by his hair.  “We’re going to run back to your flat.  We’re going to take off all these damn clothes, and then I don’t want to hear another snarky sentence out of that mouth unless it’s something along the lines of, _‘Fuck yes, John, right there, harder, more_.’  ”

 

Sherlock smiled.  “Is that an order, Captain?”

 

“Bloody fucking _hell_.”  John dragged Sherlock back to his mouth for a few seconds before releasing him.  “You’re going to be the death of me.”

 

Without replying, Sherlock picked up John’s cane and handed it to him.  John gratefully accepted it and the two men stared at each other in disbelief, taking in their mussed clothes and ruffled hair.

 

John started to giggle.  “I feel like I’m seventeen years old again.  How do you do that to me?”

 

“You were always an adrenaline junkie.”  Sherlock stepped away and began to walk down the street.  “Exactly how fast can you run?”

 

“You’re a bad, bad man,” John said darkly before limping along to catch up, linking their hands again as they walked as quickly as they could to Sherlock’s flat.  “I was trying to be a gentleman, you know.  I made a promise and everything to take it slow between us.”

 

“Taking it slow is for the sentimental and idiotic.  I don’t have time to waste with you,” Sherlock said.

 

“Yeah, but I thought, considering everything that’s happened, that you’d want to start small.  Dates and cuddles and…all right, admittedly I didn’t think that part through,” John amended.

 

“You’re not incorrect.  I do owe you a great deal, as you said in the pub.  I’m more than ready to make it up to you for the pain I’ve caused you.”

 

John frowned and squeezed Sherlock’s hand.  “Hey.  Remember what else I said.  We’re putting that in the past, all of it.  You did what you had to do.  I understand it all.”

 

Sherlock didn’t reply, so John just squeezed his hand.  “Enough talk.  Let’s get to your flat.  I’ve been imagining sex with you for far too long to take any more time to guess what it’s like.”

 

He got a giggle out of that, and they continued down the winding streets of Prague as fast as they could.


	2. Chapter 2

“I’m embarrassed to admit it,” John wheezed, “but I actually need a bit of a breather.  Why did you pick the flat seven stories up in a building with _no elevator_?”

 

“You saw the exterior.  Gothic design.  Gorgeous.”  Sherlock deftly flipped through his keys and opened the door to his new flat, which John stumbled into immediately in search of a chair.

 

He was immediately disappointed.  “You don’t have a bloody chair???”

 

“How would I have gotten it up to the flat?  As you observed, there is no elevator,” Sherlock said gruffly, trying to rearrange the papers and books on the floor.  John groaned and slunk down to the floor, trying to catch his breath.  The flat was essentially empty, with white walls in various states of griminess and disrepair and a small, unused stove in the corner.  A few beakers were scattered in the corner, since there were no tables to be found, either, and apparently no food.

 

“You and me,” John said.  “We’re moving out.  Have you eaten at all in the past few months?”

 

“I always go to restaurants, when hunger strikes.”

 

“You don’t bother to cook anything yourself?”

 

“Hmm.  I’ve deleted any useful recipes.  You were the one with the cooking ability, though perhaps I’m being a bit liberal with the word ‘ability.’  ”

 

“And here I was thinking you’d changed into some sullen baby in my absence,” John said with a shrug.  “Not the first time I’ve been wrong.”

 

“Nor the last, I daresay,” Sherlock replied.

 

“The, er, bedroom’s in a better state than this room, is it?”

 

“Yes.  Well, perhaps I’m being liberal with the word ‘better’…” Sherlock abandoned his mission to organize the room and sat down next to John.  “If you don’t like it, there are plenty of other Gothic buildings with elevators.”

 

“Ta,” John said.  “Did you not know I would be coming for you?  Is that why this is all so…disorganized?”

 

“Well.  No.”  He cleared his throat.  “But I did consider returning to London in secret, years after all this, and begging forgiveness.”

 

“You don’t know me as well as you think if you thought for sure I wouldn’t try and find you.”

 

“Admittedly, my knowledge on this sort of thing is limited.”  Sherlock gave him a grin that could only be considered illegal.  “But I was hoping you’d teach me more about it.”

 

Suddenly, all memory of having to walk up seven flights of stairs was forgotten and Sherlock’s hands were on him, pulling off John’s coat and flexing his fingers over the back of John’s neck.  “Are you still feeling winded?” Sherlock asked innocently.

 

“What?”

 

“That’s what I thought,” Sherlock said, and he tilted John’s head toward him and kissed him softly, then more firmly, and John felt himself being gently pushed down to the floor and assaulted with kisses on his forehead, on his eyelids and nose, on his chin…  “Well, we’ll have to get rid of this,” he sighed.

 

“Get rid of what?” John asked.

 

Sherlock didn’t respond; he pulled off John’s jumper rather clumsily and got to work on the buttons of his shirt underneath until he’d removed the whole thing.  “John Watson,” he whispered reverently, “you are a marvel I doubted I’d ever get to examine up close.”

 

John was about to reply, but then Sherlock pressed a searing kiss to the scar on his shoulder and he lost his train of thought, only focusing on Sherlock’s lips moving against his collarbone and dipping behind his ear while his hands traced patterns over the bare skin of his chest, silently counting ribs and feeling for scars.

 

“Wait,” he whispered, trying feebly to pull off Sherlock’s coat, “this isn’t how it’s supposed to go.”

 

Sherlock pulled away, eyes furrowed in concern, and said, “What do you mean?  Am I doing it wrong?”

 

“Not at all,” John said, and in a surprising show of strength he himself didn’t know he had, he shoved Sherlock onto his back and climbed over him.  He pulled Sherlock’s arms out of his enormous coat, earning him a bemused expression from Sherlock, and got to work on the buttons of his shirt.  “Damn shirt won’t open…hold on…”  Figuring he could buy him another one later, he paused for a moment and grabbed both sides of the shirt and ripped it in half.

 

“ _John!_ ” Sherlock gasped, but John was too busy pulling the remnants of the shirt off Sherlock’s body and doing his own exploration.

 

“You are _bloody gorgeous_ ,” he said between kisses.  “Have I ever told you that?”

 

“Mmm…not that I can recall.”

 

“Gorgeous, gorgeous, _gorgeous_ ,” John repeated over and over, ghosting his lips across Sherlock’s chest.  His fingers drifted down to the zipper on Sherlock’s trousers, making his hips buck against John’s.

 

John licked his lips and clambered around until he was straddling Sherlock, and with a wicked grin, he rocked his hips against Sherlock’s.  Sherlock moaned in response, clutching John’s hips as he repeated the motion, adding torturous circles.  John was secretly pleased that he still knew what to do, especially since he’d never done anything like this with a man before.

 

Sherlock’s fingers traced up John’s chest and yanked him down for another spine-tingling kiss, and John felt that if it was demanded of him, he would be quite happy to do nothing for the rest of his life but kiss this man.

 

His aching cock throbbing through his jeans, however, made him think otherwise.    He snuck his lips around to Sherlock’s jaw and licked a stripe up to his ear.  “Tell me if I’m not doing it right.”

 

“Stop _worrying_ ,” Sherlock grumbled.  “Do what you’re going to do.  I can’t wait anymore.”

 

John bit his earlobe for that and descended down the pale column of Sherlock’s chest, laving kisses right above his trousers.  Sherlock groaned and thrust his hips against John encouragingly, and very slowly, John unzipped his trousers and pulled Sherlock’s cock out of his pants.

 

“ _Oh_ —oh that’s— _John!_ ” Sherlock moaned, slamming his head against the floor and arching up to meet him.  John smiled and experimentally ran the tip of his tongue over the tip of Sherlock’s cock, tasting salt.  He wasn’t exactly sure where to go from here, since he’d only ever been on the receiving end of a blowjob, but he was ready to find out.  He closed his eyes and slowly, teasingly, slid his lips over him.

 

“ _JOHN_!” Sherlock whined, and John couldn’t help but open his eyes to take a peek at what Sherlock looked like.  He’d imagined what Sherlock would look like in a moment like this, but his imagination had nothing on reality—Sherlock’s eyes were wide with shock, and they rolled back into his head while he bit his lip to keep from being too noisy. 

 

John slid off with an obscene pop.  “You’re allowed to be loud, Sherlock.  Don’t hold back.  I want to hear it.”

 

Sherlock looked down and glared.  “Why are you _stopping_?”

 

He chuckled and took Sherlock back into his mouth, earning a delicious groan from Sherlock, and started to bob his head up and down, sliding his lips over his cock.  John was thankful that this didn’t seem as hard as he thought it would be.

 

Sherlock’s sounds were becoming less coherent and more animalistic by far, which John found extremely encouraging.  He sped up, only momentarily startled when Sherlock began to thrust into his mouth, and tried to remember what _he_ liked in a blowjob.  He ran his tongue across the underside of Sherlock’s cock, sucking on it slightly, and the tortured little cry that Sherlock gave was well worth it.

 

“John…oh, _JohnJohnJohnJohnJohn_ …please, John, _please_ …”

 

He grinned around Sherlock and kept going, trying to take him in deeper and forcing himself not to gag.

 

“John—fuck— _John_ —”

 

He felt a spurt at the back of his throat and coughed as Sherlock tensed like a string, frozen beautifully with his eyes squeezed shut and his mouth open wide, and then he relaxed into the floor, breathing hard.  John slipped off and swallowed hard before rolling to the side and inspecting Sherlock.

 

“You okay?” he asked, expecting Sherlock to roll his eyes.

 

All he did was smile, one of the first genuine smiles John had seen in months, and turn to look at John.  “You…are brilliant.”

 

“I do my best.  That was new, for me.”  He furrowed his brow.  “Did…did Moriarty ever do that?  To you?”

 

Sherlock scoffed.  “Jim only ever wanted his pleasure, and he was rather rough about it.  Now, I’d be the first to admit that I’ve fantasized about some rough play, with _you_ to be specific, but his ideas of games…”

 

“I can guess, “John said quietly, wrapping his arms around Sherlock’s shoulders.  “You know I’d never do that to you.  Any of it.” He chuckled and kissed Sherlock to reinforce it.  “But _do_ let me know when you’d like a rough shag.”

 

Sherlock’s laugh rumbled deep in his chest.  “Well, I do believe I owe you one after that.”  He looked back at John, eyes gleaming.  “Fancy another round?”

 

“That quickly?  You only just—”

 

“Not for me, idiot,” he said affectionately.  “I can see your prick throbbing through your jeans.”

 

Embarrassingly enough, John had been too focused on Sherlock to think about himself—but he wasn’t arguing now.  “Bedroom?”

 

“ _Yes_.”  Sherlock sprang off the floor, zipping up his trousers and dragging John up by the arm.  John nearly fell down without the help of the cane, and rolling his eyes, Sherlock looped one arm around John’s back and the other around his legs and hoisted him up bridal style.

 

“OI!” John shouted in protest.  “You can’t just—where did you learn to do _that_???”

 

Sherlock just laughed and ran them the short distance from the floor to his bedroom, opening the door after a bit of a struggle that John loved him for, and sending them sprawling into the small room.

 

And then he stopped, nearly dropping John to the ground, because of what was perched expectantly on his bed.

 

Or, rather, _who_ was perched on his bed…completely naked.

 

“I see I caught you two at a rather inopportune time.  I’d say I was sorry, but I rather like what I see.”

 

John cleared his throat, prompting Sherlock to put him down.  He steadied himself against the doorframe.  “Sherlock,” he said quietly.  “Who is this?”

 

“A client.”  Sherlock raked his eyes over the naked figure, looking to deduce _something_ about her, but she merely clicked her tongue in annoyance.

 

“It’ll be quite hard for you to figure me out, Mr. Holmes,” she said, “especially since I’m in my battle dress.  I’ll just tell you what I think you should know.”  She extended her hand forward.  “My name is Irene Adler.  I need your help.”

 

* * *

 

_Four months ago_

_“I’ll be needing to see your security clearances,” one of the guards said at the door, and she chuckled at him._

_“I think you’ll find that Mr. Moriarty is expecting me,” she said.  “He’ll be quite cross to find that I’m being detained.”_

_“That’s not good enough for us, ma’am,” he insisted, crossing his arms._

_She rolled her eyes and pulled a riding crop from inside her coat, and before the supposedly-highly-trained guard could reach for his gun, she gave his neck a few quick slaps with it.  He gasped for air when she stopped, wincing at the red streaks she’d left on his neck._

_“Do you see the initials on this riding crop?” she asked, shoving it under his face._

_He examined them quickly, and without another word, opened the door for her._

_The room was lavish, covered in mahogany and gold gilt, with gaudy marble statues and an enormous fireplace.  Jim, as expected, was drinking a cup of tea in one of the two leather armchairs by the fire._

_He smiled and offered her a cup.  “Nice to see you again, my dear.”_

_“Is Sherlock here?”_

_“No.  I finished with him ages ago.  He’s probably still in the bedroom, figuring out how to get out of those handcuffs.”  He smirked.  “He does so love my little games.”_

_“I don’t understand—why do you let him keep playing you?  You know he’s been contacting Mycroft.”_

_“What can I say?  I have a flair for the dramatic.”  He set his teacup down.  “I can’t say the same for you, my dear.  You’re all over the place.”_

_“I thought that’s what you liked about me,” she said._

_“Of course.  No one could ever guess how smart you are.  You really are—and I don’t say this much—an extraordinary woman.”_

_She smiled.  “What do you need?”_


	3. Chapter 3

“Could you please put some clothes on?” John asked, shielding his eyes.  “It’s distracting.”

 

“Says the man who was five minutes away from having his cock up a man’s arse,” Irene said flippantly.  She reached an expectant hand out to Sherlock, who went back to the outer room and picked up his coat and John’s cane.  On returning, he handed the cane to John and the coat to her.

 

“Any better, Dr. Watson?” she asked.  “I thought so.  Mr. Holmes, it would seem that I require your help.  You’ve put me in a rather dreadful situation.”

 

“Sorry, but—how do you know Sherlock?” John asked.

 

“You needn’t worry,” she sighed.  “Sherlock and I have never met before.  You don’t have any competition for his affections.  Well, that is, if you can keep him.”

 

Sherlock cleared his throat.  “Enough.  Irene Adler, you say?”

 

“Yes.  Someone you might vaguely recognize as one of the faceless associates of James Moriarty.  I assume you went through the files of his web, when you worked together.”

 

“Yes—I remember you now.”  He crossed his arms.  “The Woman, you’re called.  A dominatrix.  Jim was working with you before we got involved.”

 

“Smart boy,” she said.  “You see, in my line of work, I can get quite a bit of information out of my clients.  People will tell you anything once they’re tied up, or worse.  I had some rather juicy secrets I could use, but I confess, I don’t have your intellect, Mr. Holmes.  I recruited Moriarty to get some advice on how exactly to put my knowledge to good use.”

 

“Moriarty’s dead, now,” John reminded them.

 

“Thank you for your input, Dr. Watson,” she hissed, crossing her legs impatiently.  “Yes, Moriarty is dead, thanks to your posh little boyfriend and his big brother.  But killing James Moriarty wasn’t the only precaution he took.”

 

Before Irene could explain, Sherlock cut her off.  “I sent the files to the police before the tea party.  By the time Moriarty was dead, the police received the files of everyone who’d ever been involved with him.”

 

“Putting me in quite a bit of danger,” Irene said with a pout.  “London’s finest showed up at my door within minutes with charges of treason.”

 

John frowned.  “Then why aren’t you in jail?”

 

“I wasn’t involved—not with the attempted murder of the Queen, at least.  No, all I’d ever done was exchange a few harmless emails with the man.”

 

“Then I don’t get it—why are you in danger?”

 

She sighed.  “It’s not the police I was worried about.  My location, my identity, my information—it was all leaked out to the wrong people.  People who would like to see me dead or worse.  Which puts me on the run, Sherlock Holmes.”  She turned her gaze to Sherlock and smiled lightly.  “You’ve sent people to kill me.”

 

“Indirectly.”

 

“I’m on the run for my life—I don’t much care about how much blame to place on you.  You’re lucky I need you.  I’ve already been found.”

 

“Why waste your time with me, then?  If it’s revenge you’re looking for—”

 

“Oh, not _revenge_ , didn’t I tell you?  I need your _help_ ,” she insisted.  “I’ve a mystery for you.  The people who’ve found me, I don’t know who they are—and I don’t know why they’re waiting.  They’ve been sending me messages, little threats, and I want you to find them for me.”

 

“What comes next?”  Sherlock asked.  “When I find them, what do you do?”

 

“Have them killed.  Or kill them myself.  I can do either.”

 

Sherlock pursed his lips, considering it.  After a few seconds’ pause, he said, “Nope.  Sorry.  Not interested.  Good luck, Miss Adler.”

 

“You don’t even know what I’m offering.”

 

“You’re not going to offer, you’re going to _threaten_ ,” he replied.  “Come on, it’s not exactly that big of a leap, is it?  You have state secrets you’re willing to reveal.  Something that will inevitably bring the empire crashing down and leave Britain in shambles.”

 

She frowned and reached for her phone, which she’d left conveniently on the bedside table.  “Not just state secrets, Mr. Holmes.  You’re not wrong—the stuff I have in here could burn England to the ground.  But that’s not what I’m offering.”

 

“Anything you could possibly have on me is no worse than anything England already believes I did.  I’m a verified kidnapper, killer, bomber, thief, and arsonist.  _Clearly_ you need to up the stakes if you want to play this game with me, Miss Adler.”

 

“It’s about your brother.”

 

Sherlock had the grace to look confused for a moment.  “You have secrets on Mycroft?  Anything he’s done, illegal or otherwise, was sanctioned in secret by his associates in the British government.  You don’t have any information they aren’t willing to cover up thoroughly.”

 

“You haven’t been following me, have you?” she asked.  “I’ve told you that my safety has been compromised, and that I’ve already been found by the people who want to kill me.”

 

“Yes.”

 

“So, the question is—why haven’t they killed me yet?” She opened her phone and scrolled through it quickly while she explained.  “The answer—they don’t need to kill me.  They know I’m just one person, and I can run.  They’re bigger than that.  They don’t want to just kill me, they want to show that they have complete power over me—and a dominatrix doesn’t like giving up power to anyone.”

 

“You said these people want you dead.”

 

“They aren’t trying to kill me yet.  They’re showing me that they have the power to kill the one person on the planet who could offer me protection at this point.  I was sent this.”  Selecting a file on her phone, she smiled grimly and showed the two men the picture.

 

The picture was a grainy but unmistakable photo of Mycroft Holmes, taken from a window outside his dining room, where he sat alone looking over an enormous pile of paperwork.

 

“Sherlock,” John said, “I don’t understand.”

 

“They want to kill my brother,” Sherlock said plainly.  “And it’s well within their power.  Does he know?”

 

“I don’t think so.  You’re not around to alert him.”

 

“Why come to me?  You said it yourself, they’re not going to kill you yet.  If they’re intent is to kill your one lifeline first, why wouldn’t you run and get lost so they wouldn’t find you?”

 

“Once Mycroft’s dead, nowhere else on Earth would be safe.  They know that, and you know that, and so do I.  If I have any chance of survival, it’s with Mycroft Holmes.  He could make the arrangements for me.”

 

“Why not bring it to him, then?”

 

“Because your brother, even if he is smarter than you, is not a detective.  You’re the Holmes Brother who searches for clues and figures out crimes.  Why do you think he always comes to you with his puzzles?”

 

Sherlock swallowed once.  “If I take the case, I’d have to investigate at the source.”

 

“But you can’t,” John argued.  “Sorry, but that’s just not possible.  Sherlock can’t go back to London or he’ll be found and killed—if not by the government, then by one of these people, the ones who want you dead, Miss Adler.  If he goes back to England, it’s a death sentence.”

 

“And if I don’t, it’s a death sentence for my brother when I had every power in the world to stop it.  I’ll take the case,” he said.  “We leave for London tomorrow morning.  I have a few different identities sorted that I could use.  Meet at Lestrade’s house, invite Mycroft over, discuss a game plan.  He’ll need someone watching him at all times, someone _capable_ of protecting him, since he’s doing such a shoddy job of it himself.”  He eyed Irene.  “Will you be coming, too, then?”

 

“Oh, if you’d like,” she purred.  “Just the two of us, trying to outrun death in London.  Rather romantic.”

 

John suppressed a growl.  “Sherlock, you’ll have to be more careful than you’ve ever been in your life.  These people can’t know you’re back, or they’ll kill the both of you for meddling.  And then they’ll kill Miss Adler.”

 

“Have a little faith, John,” Sherlock said with a smile.  “I did fool James Moriarty into thinking I was his ally for months.  I think I know how to be discreet about my plans.”  He turned to Irene again.  “You—out.”

 

“But how will I know when to meet you?  Or where you are?”

“You figured out where I was, broke into my flat, and waited for me naked on my bed.  I’m sure the very least you could do is figure out my phone number—if you don’t already have it.”  He held out a hand.  “And I’ll be needing the coat, as well.”

 

Irene looked at him in a way John was finding increasingly uncomfortable.  “It’s a shame about you and John,” she said finally.  “I’d have liked a chance at this.  Maybe I’ve still got one.”

 

“Right, I’ll just show you the door, then,” John said, reaching for the coat she shrugged off and handing it back to Sherlock.  “Just, er, find your clothes, will you, and follow me.  We’ll see you later.”

 

She laughed and slid on the dress she’d hidden under the bed.  “Pleasure to meet you, Dr. Watson.  And to hear those exquisite noises you make when you’re sucking off Mr. Holmes.  I haven’t had so much fun in ages.”

 

John shuffled her out the door, ignoring her final flirty wave, and all but slammed it behind her with an angry grunt.  He took a few steadying breaths before going back to Sherlock’s bedroom, where the detective was already stuffing shirts into a bag.

 

“You can’t be serious,” he said quietly.

 

“We just conducted a client interview without any shirts on, John—I don’t know how much more serious you can get.”

 

“You can’t go to London.  You’ll be killed or arrested or sent to jail for life.”

 

“What is the alternative?” Sherlock asked.  “Letting him die?  You know I can’t do that.  I owe him too much.”

 

John shook his head.  “It’s not that—it’s just—he has security already, and he’s probably already figured this out.”

 

“One text to Miss Adler’s phone would have flown under his radar.  He’s not worried about himself right now, he’s worried about…me.”  Sherlock stopped stuffing clothes into his bag and sat on the edge of the bed, absorbed in thought.  “He has too much on his mind with me out of the country and his own country to manage.  He just trusts his security to get him through.  Now that Jim is dead, there’s no major threat or enemy to fear.”

 

“How are you going to keep from getting caught?”

 

Sherlock thought about it.  “I’ll probably have to get a new coat.  This one’s too recognizable.”

 

“Seriously, Sherlock.”

 

“Oh, I’ll dye my hair, I’ll assume an alias, I’ll figure it out.  Under the radar.”  He looked up sadly at John.  “I’d probably do better if we weren’t together for it.  People recognize you from your blog, anyway.”

 

“No.  No, Sherlock Holmes, that’s not going to happen.  If you’re walking into danger, I’m not letting you do it alone.”

 

“We might be caught if we’re together.”

 

“Sod being caught.  Sod being recognized.  You’re safer when I’m with you.  And I’m safer when you’re with me.  Or didn’t the last year teach you that?”

 

Sherlock winced at being reminded.  “It’s going to be very dangerous.  Probably even fatal.”

 

“You know what?” John said, taking a few steps closer.  “I’ve always loved danger.  Same way I love you.”

 

He smiled at that.  “We were interrupted before, weren’t we?”

 

“Yep.”

 

“I believed I told you I owe you one.”  Sherlock grinned up at John.  “I don’t suppose you’re interested?”

 

“Less talking, more snogging,” John replied, dropping the cane and falling onto the bed with Sherlock in his arms.

 

They were too preoccupied with what came next to hear the text alert on John’s phone.  He didn’t check the phone until the morning and its accompanying text from an unknown number.

 

**YOU’VE MADE A MISTAKE.**


	4. Chapter 4

Mycroft jumped when he heard the phone ring—not just one of his many public and private lines managed deftly by Anthea, but his cell phone, vibrating away on his desk.  For a moment he dreaded the call, fearing news that Sherlock is hurt or worse, but then he realized Sherlock wouldn’t call.

 

He preferred to text.  When he could.

 

He picked up the phone irritably, leaning back in his leather chair, and frowned when he saw the caller.

 

D.I. Greg Lestrade.  Most interesting.

 

“Good afternoon, Detective Inspector,” he said smoothly.  “How can I help you today?”

 

“Mycroft,” Lestrade replied.  “Good to hear from you.  How’s England doing?”

 

“Considering the fact that there isn’t panic in the streets, rather well.  Please get to the point, Lestrade.  I _am_ rather busy.  Has Sherlock contacted you?”

 

“What?  Er, no, he’s not allowed, is he?  Wherever he currently is.” 

 

Mycroft could hear the frown in Lestrade’s voice.  Of course, in exchange for their loyalty and compliance, Mycroft had told Lestrade, Miss Hooper, and Mrs. Hudson about Sherlock’s plan during his time with Moriarty.  Molly and Mrs. Hudson were easily persuaded to forgive Sherlock, but Lestrade wasn’t entirely mollified.  Mycroft could understand—Sherlock had nearly killed him on several occasions.

 

“Actually,” Lestrade said, “we were wondering if you were free tonight.”

 

“Free?”

 

“Molly and me, we wanted you over for dinner tonight.  We figured…with your brother gone, you could use the company.”

 

“Ah yes,” Mycroft said, understanding.  “And how is your relationship with Miss Hooper going?”

 

“Oh, it’s—going really well, actually.  The divorce papers went through a few months ago, and we started seeing each other after all that.  But I’m sure you already knew that.”

 

“Contrary to popular belief, I do not watch all of the people related to Sherlock through security cameras.  I have more important things to do.”

 

“Then how did you know me and Moll—never mind,” Lestrade sighed.  “Anyway, she’s moved in and she told me to invite you over.”

 

“Very kind of you both, but I’m quite busy.”

 

“Oh, come off it, Mycroft.  You shouldn’t be alone, mate.  Moll’s making Beef Wellington.  I even heard a rumor there’ll be cake.”

 

Mycroft’s mouth twitched.  “You can’t believe everything Sherlock says about me, Detective Inspector.”

 

“So that’s a no to the cake then?”

 

“What kind is it?”

 

“I was thinking chocolate.  Molly’s making me bake it myself, so we’ll see how it turns out.  You can arrest me if it’s truly bad.”

 

Surprisingly enough, Mycroft chuckled at that.  “I suppose I could stop by.  If only to try your cooking.”

 

“Great.  Come at half six.  Oh, and Mycroft?”

 

“Yes?”

 

“If you bring any champagne, _please_ don’t bring the exploding kind.”

 

Mycroft opened his mouth to protest, but he heard Lestrade hang up and could only fume at his phone.  Clearing his throat, he called out to Anthea in the hall.

 

She scurried into the room.  “Sir?”

 

“I won’t be available tonight.  Secure for me, if you could, a bottle Cristal Brut 1990, dear.”

 

She raised a surprised eyebrow.  “Someone special?”

“Not at all,” he scowled.  “I’m merely going out with friends tonight.”

 

* * *

 

He’d fallen asleep the night before, tangled up in Sherlock’s impossibly long limbs on the tiny bed, right after Sherlock gave him exactly what he wanted.  He’d been hoping to have the energy for another round, but as soon as Sherlock climbed up from John’s hips and slid his arms around him, John immediately fell asleep with a mumbled ‘ _thankyouthankyouthankyou_ ’ and a messy kiss to Sherlock’s temple.  The next thing he remembered was waking up late, with Sherlock offering him a change of clothes and a cup of brackish coffee.

 

“You’ve been busy,” he said groggily, taking a sip of the coffee first.  “And apparently you’ve learned nothing about the nuances of good coffee-making.  Where’ve you been?”

 

“Preparing.  I took the liberty of going to your hotel and picking up the rest of your clothes and belongings.  You didn’t bring much with you, you know.”  Sherlock gestured to a small backpack on the floor.

 

“Hmm.  I don’t really need much.  Makes for easier travel, anyway.  When do we leave?”

 

“An hour.  Irene’s already texted; she’ll meet us there.  Drink up, John.”

 

John really didn’t feel like finishing the coffee he had, but since Sherlock had put in the effort, he gulped the rest of it down and began to change.  “What exactly are you bringing, if you’re going disguised?”

 

“A whole new wardrobe—I ordered it all from my phone last night.  Sadly, it is not to my taste in the least, but it’s what all the ‘hip’ kids are wearing.  I’m burning the rest.”

 

“Not the coat?”

 

“I’ve lots of coats, John.”

 

He smiled at that and finished dressing.  When he turned around for Sherlock’s approval, he gasped in shock.

 

“What?”

 

“Your _hair_.”

 

“Didn’t you notice before?”

 

“N-no, I just woke up.”  John immediately grabbed Sherlock by the face and threaded his fingers through Sherlock’s hair, which was newly shorn and cut closer to his head.  “You chopped it off.”

 

Sherlock grumbled.  “It’s too recognizable.  Short of plastic surgery, it’s the only thing I can do to become unrecognizable.  Especially since you insist on following me.”

 

John felt the new length between his fingers and shook his head.  “Overreacting, sorry.  I love it, of course.”

 

“Mmm, no, you don’t.”

 

“Well, I love _you_ , so the haircut is…fine.  At least you kept the color.”

 

Sherlock smirked.  “I couldn’t break your heart like that.  I know it’s a part of my appeal.  Shame about the cut, though.  I noticed you liked tangling your fingers in it last night, especially during—”

 

“Right.”  John kissed the tip of his nose.  “At one point, I swear, I will keep you up all night without falling asleep like an old, daft idiot.”

 

“Bold words.”

 

“Shut it.  What will you be wearing, if you’re abandoning your normal clothes here?”

 

With an evil smile, Sherlock shed his enormous coat and revealed a plain black t-shirt and jeans.  By all means, a completely normal outfit—even trainers.

 

John gulped.  “Fuck.  I’m dating a teenager.”

 

“What?  What do you mean?”

 

“You look…like some male model.  Like some eighteen-year-old wet dream.  I don’t think my poor old heart can take it.”

 

“Give yourself a little credit,” Sherlock purred, moving slowly toward John and forcing him back onto the bed.  “ _Captain_ Watson.”

 

“Bloody _heeeeeeellll_.”  John was largely incoherent after that, since he’d been pounced upon by Sherlock with short hair and trainers, who was dragging open-mouthed kisses down John’s neck.  This was not healthy.  This was _not_ safe.  John was going to be distracted on every case, when he was supposed to be protecting this idiot, who was dressed like…

 

John decided to stop thinking about it and instead dragged his nails up and down Sherlock’s back.  He slid them underneath the shirt and pressed his fingertips down the bumps in his spines, dipping them underneath the waistband of his jeans and grapping his arse.

 

Sherlock gasped and returned his attention back to John’s mouth, kissing it with delicious moans escaping between them and John thanked his lucky stars that Sherlock was so vocal, and that his favorite thing to say in moments like this was his name, over and over.

 

“John, you are perfect,” he pronounced, kneeing John’s legs apart.  “You’re exactly what I need.”

 

“Sherlock…” John groaned when Sherlock rubbed his jean-clad erection against his own and sighed as he pushed Sherlock up and off.  “We only have an hour.”

 

He pouted from his side of the bed, a glower that somehow still managed to look insanely hot to John (who couldn’t fathom how exactly Sherlock _did_ that).  “Who knows when we’ll have time to do this in London?  Or the security?”

 

John considered that while Sherlock rolled back on top of him and trailed his long fingers over John’s ribs.  “You make an excellent point.”

 

“I always do,” he breathed, unzipping John’s trouser while John fumbled with the zipper on Sherlock’s jeans.  John gasped when Sherlock’s cock tumbled out and he aligned both together, thrusting them through his clenched hand.

 

“You’re— _you weren’t wearing pants_.”

 

“Of course not,” Sherlock said impatiently.  “What would be the point?  These jeans are too tight anyway.”

 

“If you’re—trying—not to attract _attention_ in London—oh fuck—” John lost his train of thought and canted his hips up to move faster against Sherlock.  “Sherlock, _harder_ … _please…_ oh, fuck…  We’re going to make a mess!” he shrieked.

 

Sherlock rolled his eyes and immediately descended upon John’s cock with decidedly more kill than the night before, which had been a bit of a learning experience for both of them.  Sherlock hadn’t really understood the fact that teeth rarely feel good in excess during a blowjob.

 

“Fuck— _fuck_ — _SHERLOCK!_ ” John came with a strangled groan after only a minute of Sherlock’s insistent sucking off, and Sherlock swallowed with relish and zipped up John’s trousers.

 

“That was easier than I thought,” he announced while John lay panting on the bed.  “Clearly these clothes are a turn-on for you.  I’ll add it to my file.”

 

“Your…what?”

 

“Nothing.”  Sherlock lay on the bed next to John, who was still panting like mad.  With great determination, John turned over and pulled down Sherlock’s jeans.  “John, you know you don’t have to—”

 

“ _Want_ to.”  John licked a stripe up Sherlock’s cock and swirled his tongue around the tip before taking him into his throat.

 

It only took about a minute before Sherlock was shouting John’s name.  John flopped next to him when Sherlock came with his own matching smile.  “That was easier than _I_ thought,” he said pointedly.  “Come on, then.  Less than an hour to go.  Grab your silly teenager clothes and let’s go walk to our deaths.”

 

Sherlock sprang off the bed with surprising ease and grabbed his bags off the floor, tossing John’s backpack and phone to him.  “I’ll get a cab.”

 

John smiled at him in thanks and turned on his phone.  There’d be a few panicked texts from Harry, and maybe one from Molly, too, though they couldn’t know he was coming back to London until Sherlock told him they could know.

 

The text alerts pinged on.  Six from Harry, one from Molly, one from Greg—

 

One from an unknown number.

 

Without thinking, John opened the message.

 

**YOU’VE MADE A MISTAKE.**

 

He frowned, reading it a few times before grabbing his bag and cane and beginning the long trek down the stairs.  “Sherlock!” he called from the door.

 

The bastard was outside, getting a cab.  _Well, Watson—you can tackle a few flights of stairs_.  He limped his way down, phone in his pocket and cane in his hand, taking a few near-tumbles until he’d gotten down the entire seven flights and met Sherlock outside, grunting with pain.

 

Sherlock turned to smile at him and usher him into the cab when he noticed John’s huffing and puffing.  “I should have done something about that, yes?  That’s what people in relationships do?  Apologies, I’ll improve—”

 

“Just—read this.”  John shoved his phone into Sherlock’s face, where the anonymous message was displayed on the screen.  “Know the number?”

 

Sherlock frowned and took the phone.  “No.”

 

“What’s the mistake?  Helping the Adler woman?  Going to London?”  John shook his head and stamped his cane on the ground for emphasis.  “This is a bad idea.  Whoever sent this is right—we’ve made a huge mistake.  We need to stay here, where you’re safe.”

 

“We don’t even know what they’re referring to,” Sherlock said shortly.  “Scare tactics, John.  I’m not backing away from helping Mycroft if I can.”  With that, he climbed into the cab and reached a hand out to take John’s cane for him.  “I’ll figure it out, John.  Come on.”

 

John growled and joined him in the cab.  “Mycroft nearly got you killed.  It was his idea that you team up with Moriarty in the first place.”

 

“Yes, but he also took care of you when I couldn’t.  And he kept me alive when I had no desire to keep going.”

 

“How’d he do that?”

 

“He kept me updated on you,” Sherlock said with a small smile.  Then he babbled in Czech to the cabbie and they were off for some private airport.


	5. Chapter 5

_“It’s imperative that Sherlock doesn’t see me,” she said.  Putting down her long-finished cup of tea, she relaxed her hands on her lap and smiled.  “That’s the only way this gets done, Jim.  His trust is gone when he knows we’re involved.”_

_“He already has some idea.”_

_“He certainly isn’t thinking about it now.  His mind’s all John-John-John.”  She giggled.  “Did he ever accidentally call you that during sex?  I’m curious.”_

_“You’re always curious.”  Jim twirled his own teacup around his middle finger before flinging it at a wall.  A servant in the room went to pick up the smashed shards.  “He was usually trying to hold in an expletive, so not really.”_

_“Ha.  I feel dirty for asking.”_

_“Speaking of which, do I ever get a turn with you, kitten?” he asked quietly._

_She frowned.  Jim never asked.  He just toyed with people, and she could see it in his grin—Jim was raking his black eyes over her body.  She shifted uncomfortably, searching for the right answer before Jim stopped caring and simply took.  “I don’t mix sex with work.  And I’m sorry, but you’re not my type.”_

_His smile grew.  “Psychopath isn’t your flavor?”_

_“Not at the moment.”_

* * *

Irene stayed awake during the entire flight.  Too many enemies to keep track of.  For the life of her, she couldn’t figure out how Sherlock had just nodded off in between her and John.

 

She spared them a glance from her silent vigil over the three of them, looking from Sherlock’s head resting on John’s shoulder and John’s affectionate smile as he read one the incomprehensible Czech magazines provided in the seat pockets.

 

“You shagged him to sleep, didn’t you?” she asked casually.  “Go on, I can always tell.  My business _is_ sex.”

 

“None of your business, Miss Adler.”

 

“Oh, come on, Dr. Watson.  Give a girl a chance, would you?  I’m not the enemy,” she said.  “I’m a _client_.”

 

“You’re a liability to Sherlock.”

 

“Sherlock’s a liability to Sherlock.  He didn’t have to take the case.”  She stretched her neck, feeling it cramp up already.  “Ohh, I’m not used to this.  I used to get first class everything.”

 

“Just one of the perks of your job, I guess.”

 

“You should have seen my wardrobe.  A little girl’s dream.  Well, maybe an older girl’s.  Whenever I feel in the mood to have a good shag myself, outside of work, I always bring the girl round to see the closets I’ve got first.  Nothing prompts an orgasm like piles of silk.”  She winked at him.  “Something to keep in mind.”

 

John slapped the magazine closed.  “Exactly what’s your game here, Adler?”

 

“Conversation.  I told you, I’m just here for your help.  I know it’s hard to believe, given my reputation, but I’m allowed to make friends,” she said with a sniff.”

 

“And you think casually talking about our sex lives is a good way of doing that?”

 

“It’s all I really know how to talk about,” she said in a low voice.  “Speaking of which, how _is_ the sex with you two?  You’ve only had one day together, if my research is right.”

 

John turned away from her and reopened the magazine.  “What else has your research told you?”

 

“All sorts of things.  Sadly, not a lot of love for you two—or a whole lot, depending on how you look at it.  All those months,” she said, “being apart.  Being tortured, the both of you.  What does that do to a relationship?”

 

“What do you mean?”

 

“Well, you know he was doing it all to keep you safe—I mean, that’s obvious.  The kidnapping, the lying, playing the part.  But how do you get around the fact that he very nearly let you get killed when you’re trying to get off?”

 

“Sorry?”

 

“Don’t play coy, Watson, it doesn’t suit,” she said.  She turned away and faced the front, keeping her eyes peeled for suspicious characters.

 

He was shuffling too quickly through the magazine.  She noticed.  “Just so you know—the sex is _brilliant_.  And we’re getting better every time.”

 

“Haven’t gone all the way, then, have you?” Irene smiled.  “Don’t bother denying it.”

 

“We’ve had one day back together.”

 

“And you still haven’t answered my question—what does it do to a relationship when one partner has hurt the other so much?” she asked.  “I mean, if it’s _my_ kind of hurt—the riding crop, handcuff, candle wax kind—then it just improves it.  But his kind of hurt…broken legs and bullet wounds and what-have-you…”

 

“It’s not—it doesn’t do anything.”

 

“Really?  Nothing at all?  You’ve forgiven him?”

 

“I—” John hesitated.  “Yes.”

 

“You paused.”

 

“I didn’t.”

 

“You _did_ ,” she said, fascinated.  “You’ve not forgiven him at all yet, have you?”

 

He glared at her.  “We’re working on it.”

 

“Bloody hell, how can love survive?” she laughed.  “Seriously, though—you haven’t completely forgiven him, but you’re still fucking him?  I’m impressed at your own horrible sense of self-preservation.”

 

“Listen here—I am not going to try and explain to you all the things Sherlock has done for me and will continue to do for me, or the way our friendship works, because sometimes _I_ don’t even know,” he said angrily.  “We’re complicated.  Always have been.  And I’ve never had any feelings for any man, not in my life, and suddenly my entire life is pinned to this _wanker_.  Call it what you want, call it a death wish, but I tried living without him and looking for the ‘healthy’ relationships.  They’re nowhere near as perfect as what I have with Sherlock Holmes.”

 

She smirked.  “That so?”

 

“Abso-fucking-lutely.  And that’s the end of it.  I love him and I take care of him, and he loves me too.  That’s the only thing that matters, Miss Adler.  I’m working up to forgiving him, and it will happen one day when we’re good and ready.  _And_ ,” he hissed, “I have never found myself, in the twenty-four hours I’ve been acquainted with Sherlock’s naked body, to be thinking about anything he did to me in the midst of sex.  Your move, Miss Adler.”

 

She looked shocked for a moment, and then she smiled.  “You will next time.”

 

John decided to tune her out for the rest of the flight, but not before letting his mind wander to the night in Big Ben, the look in Sherlock’s eyes when he killed the woman—the _awful_ , evil woman—and the pain that followed a few minutes later.

 

He tore his mind away from the crunch of bone and blood, and the tear it ripped in his heart knowing that Sherlock was to blame, and instead settled his head on top of Sherlock’s and tried to sleep.

 

* * *

 

Mycroft was not about to admit to anyone that it had been a long time since he’d been a guest at someone’s house.  Of course, he’d been a guest of foreign diplomats and rulers, but never just ordinary people.  He couldn’t stomach them, for the most part.  They almost always disappointed him.

 

Lestrade and Molly Hooper, however ordinary they were, were different.  They had loyalty and enduring courage, and what they lacked in intelligence, they made up in kindness.  Mycroft could stand to be around them for more than a few minutes without wanting to tear his remaining hair out.

 

He was beginning to understand what it was like to be Sherlock.  Desperate for human attention and acceptance, but unwilling to seek it when it made him compromise on who he really was.

 

 _Oh, dear, I’m beginning to wax philosophic_ , Mycroft thought.  He straightened his suit, reaffirmed his grip on the absurdly expensive and noncombustible champagne, and knocked on the front door.

 

“Put on the oven mitts, first, Greg— _coming_!” Molly Hooper called from within.  He heard her struggle through the locks and put on his best ‘normal people’ smile that didn’t come across as a sneer when she opened the door.

 

“Evening, Miss Hooper,” he said.

 

“Mycroft!” she squeaked.  “Good to see you!”

 

“I hope I’m not too early…”

 

“No, right on the dot.  Come in,” she said, ushering him inside.  “Can I take your coat?”

 

“Thank you.”

 

“Is that Mycroft?” Greg shouted, unseen in the kitchen.  “Ask him if he knows anything about salad!  My hands are full!”

 

“ _Stop_ it, he’s a guest!” Molly admonished him, taking Mycroft’s coat.  He offered her the bottle of champagne.

 

“A gift—to go with dinner.”

 

She beamed at him.  “You shouldn’t have, Mycroft.  That’s just—just lovely of you.  Come on in, have a sit.  Can I get you anything?  Cup of tea?  Biscuits?”

 

“Not at all, I’m quite all right.  Is there anything I can do to help the proceedings?  Lestrade mentioned a salad that needed my assistance.”

 

“No, no, no, he’s being a dolt.  We’re nearly done with everything—”

 

“I insist.  I’ve been on enough diets, as I’m sure Sherlock’s told you, to know a thing or two about salad.”

 

Molly smiled, and Mycroft knew he’d said the right thing.  Sometimes finding the right balance between sociable and scary was difficult.  “All right, then.  Kitchen’s this way.  I’ll set the table.”

 

Molly led him into the little kitchen, where he made tiny little deductions along the way.

 

_Didn’t cook much when he bought the place.  Going through a trial separation with his wife, then the divorce.  Cabinets look like they’ve been hardly opened—rust on some of the hinges._

_All of the cooking appliances look used—Molly’s, from her old flat.  Brought them over when she moved in.  Lestrade is used to takeaway and microwaveable food._

Lestrade smiled at him when they entered and rolled up his sleeves to his elbows before attacking the flat chocolate cake with slabs of white icing.

 

“Have a care, Greg, you’re smothering the poor thing!”

 

“Cake is meant to be eaten, not looked at,” he argued.  “Hullo, Mycroft.  Glad you could join us.”

 

“My pleasure.  Always nice to spend time with…” Mycroft lingered on the end of the sentence.  Friend wasn’t the right word.  He hardly knew these people.  “…you.  The both of you.  A pleasure, as I said.”

 

If Lestrade noticed his pause, he didn’t say anything about it.  “Vegetables are in the crisper, already washed them.  Just give them a chop and put them in a bowl.”

 

“Indeed.”  Mycroft fetched the lettuce, peppers, and tomatoes out of the crisper drawer of their fridge ( _newly stocked—Molly’s doing_ ) and got a knife and cutting board from the cupboard Lestrade pointed out.  “You’ve…been doing well, it seems.”

 

“Yeah, I have,” he said happily.  “Molly’s brilliant.  Got the whole place turned around.”

 

“I noticed.  She’s a lovely woman.”

 

“She really is.  No one ever seems to understand how clever she is.”  Lestrade stared at the cake he’d covered in icing.  “Well, this isn’t winning any prizes, I’ll admit.  At least it came out all right.”

 

“I’m sure it will be fine, Detective Inspector.”

 

“Oh, please.  It’s Greg.  How long have we known each other?”

 

“Long enough that I’d like to keep addressing you by your title to show you respect, Detective Inspector Lestrade.”

 

He grimaced.  “Seriously, Greg is fine.  I don’t call you Mr. Holmes, do I?”

 

“No.”  Mycroft finished dicing up the peppers and tossed them in with the lettuce.  When he began to layer the tomatoes on artfully, Lestrade noticed.

 

“Blimey.  You don’t do anything halfway.”

 

“Hardly, Greg.  It’s just salad.”  Mycroft smiled to himself.  There.  He’d managed to address Lestrade—Greg—by his first name.

 

“Come on, boys, time to sit,” Molly said, coming back to the kitchen and taking the salad from Mycroft.  “Well done, you.  I could never make anything this pretty.”

 

Mycroft only nodded and followed Molly and Lestrade ( _Greg_ ) into the dining room.

 

What he saw when he entered nearly caught him off guard—for the smallest second—but he regained composure quickly enough that no one noticed.

 

Well, no one but his little brother, who was seated on one side of the table with John and an unidentified woman and smiling like he’d won a game of chess.

 

“You’re getting slow,” Sherlock said.  “Hello, Mycroft.  Didn’t you notice we were here?”

 

Mycroft swallowed down his anger.  In a way, it was poetic.  He’d gotten…minutely excited over the prospect of spending an evening with people who’d invited him over for the sake of his company, and look how it had gone awry.  He’d been _distracted_.

 

Ludicrous.

 

“Well, little brother,” he said carefully, “back in London, I see.  I hope you’ve enjoyed your time here, seeing as I’m sure you’re being followed and will be captured within the minute, sentenced to life in prison or worse.”

 

“We’ve been careful,” John said.  “Mycroft, we wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t important.”

 

“I can see that.  Hello, Dr. Watson.”  Mycroft, pretending not to be fazed by the horrible impossibility of keeping Sherlock safe in England, sat down at the table beside Molly and Greg, who gave him apologetic looks.  “Well, let’s tuck in, shall we?  Wouldn’t want this meal to go to waste, even if it was all a ruse.”


	6. Chapter 6

“ _So we’re agreed, then.”_

_“Oh, we’re agreed, my dear… I just want to make sure you’re not going to back out.  You’ve a bit of a reputation for running away scared.”_

_“Not anymore.”_

* * *

 

“You think I’m in _danger_?” Mycroft said condescendingly.  “Well, I can’t say I’m not flattered, little brother.  You jeopardizing your life, and the lives of everyone at this table, just to try and warn me about a security threat that is either already being handled by my men or nonexistent because you’re _worried_ about me.”

 

“Don’t be a prick,” Sherlock scoffed.  “I have every reason to believe this threat is very real.”

 

“Really?  And what, pray tell, is the evidence?”

 

“If you’ll let me _get_ there, I’ll explain it to you.”

 

“Stop it, both of you!” Molly said with a scowl.  “Mycroft, I’m very sorry that we surprised you like this, but it’s important that you listen to what they have to say.  So everyone play nice, and let’s pass the salad and bread around.”

 

The table looked at her in admiration, and then sprang into action.  Greg even got to work opening the champagne.

 

“Now, perhaps I’ll explain, shall I?” Irene said.  “Since I’m the one with the problem, and the one no one here really knows.  My name is Irene Adler.  Professionally known as the Woman.”

 

“Ah, yes, I’m familiar with your work.  You were employed by one of my…superiors.”

 

She grinned.  “Posh little thing.  I might ring her up again when all this is over.  Anyway, I’m a former associate of the man you knew as James Moriarty.”

 

Mycroft noticeably stiffened at the mention of his name, but Irene waved it off.

 

“You see, in my line of work, I’m able to get…information.  I have quite a few state secrets and bits of classified information under my belt.  Or riding crop, as it were.”

 

“What are you, then?” Greg asked.  “Spy working as…a professional jockey?”

 

She rolled her eyes at him.  “Dominatrix.”

 

That shut the table up.

 

Molly cleared her throat.  “Right.  Anyone want some Beef Weellington?  I’ll bring it round.”

 

“With the information I had, I went to Moriarty to learn how best to use it, but before I got the chance, your dear little brother tore him in half with an exploding champagne bottle and put my information on the market,” Irene said.

 

“A bit unfortunate, that,” Mycroft said.  “I can arrange for your protection, should we come to an agreement about how you’ll keep the information to yourself.”

 

“That’s just the problem, my dear…” Irene pulled out her phone and showed him the picture she was sent.

 

Mycroft took the phone with a frown.  “This is…worrying.”

 

“Exactly.  The enemies I have know that the only way I can be safe is getting help from the most powerful man in Britain—so now they’re targeting my only chance at freedom.”

 

“I don’t understand,” Greg said.  “If they’re _your_ enemies, why are they targeting Mycroft?”

 

“It’s a power play,” Sherlock replied.  “Obvious.  Whoever the enemy is, they’re playing a game with Miss Adler before killing her off—or they’re trying to get her to give them what they want by threatening her.”

 

Greg furrowed his brow.  “Wait, that doesn’t make sense.”

 

“ _How_ does it not make sense?”

 

“Irene was on Moriarty’s side, yeah?  So her enemies should be on our side of the law.  On Mycroft’s side.  So why would they show her that they could shoot Mycroft?” Greg asked.

 

“They could be a third party outside of politics,” Irene said.  “Merely interested in preserving the information I have and not letting it get out.”

 

“So why not give them what they want?  Give them your information so they know you can’t use it, and they won’t be after you anymore,” Molly suggested, but Irene just shook her head.

 

“If I give them my phone, there’ll be no reason to keep me alive.  I’m dead either way—if I give them the phone, I’m useless, and if I have it, they know I can release the information on my phone.”

 

“D’you reckon they just want the information, then?” John asked.  “They’re not out to kill you or Mycroft?”

 

Irene rolled her eyes.  “Would it matter what they were after?”

 

“Motive is everything.”

 

“The point is, I’m _not_ giving them my phone.  It’s my protection.  If I give it to them, I’m dead.  If I don’t give it to them, your brother and I are in danger.  It’s Sherlock’s job to figure it out so we both make it out of this alive.”

 

Sherlock sent her a glare.  “I’m _working on it_.  Now do you see why we have to come back?  I can’t very well leave you to figure it all out.”

 

“If you’re implying that I am inferior in intellect, you know you are mistaken.”

 

“We won’t go into that now.  If you show that you know you’re being targeted, you won’t be able to investigate without getting killed,” Sherlock said.  “I’m here to solve the case, figure out who’s after the both of you, and negotiate before anyone gets hurt.  Then I’ll be out of your hair and back in Prague.  Or New York.  John’s obsessed with the idea of me going there.”

 

John snorted.  “You keep saying that…”

 

Sherlock ignored him and continued.  “That’s why we’re here.  We couldn’t alert you that we’d come back.  You have to act as if I’m back in Prague, which I’m sure you can manage.  And in the meantime, you’ll need to be guarded.”

 

“I have plenty of security wherever I go, Sherlock…” 

 

“Not enough, or else they wouldn’t have caught you alone and decided to let you live based on their terms, as the photo suggests.  Here’s what I propose,” Sherlock said.  “You need round-the-clock protection, but you can’t alert our currently-unknown enemy that you know you’re being watched.  The obvious solution is to have Lestrade with you.”

 

Greg nearly dropped his fork.  “Sorry?”

 

“You heard me.  You and Mycroft have known each other for long enough that you could pass as being friends.  Or you could act like you were working with him.  I can’t believe I’m saying this, but…you’re really the best England has to offer in terms of protection.  If I can’t be with my brother to watch over him while he bumbles, I know you’ll probably keep him safe until I can solve the case.”  Sherlock smirked.  “You’re the only one who I trust with the job.”

 

Greg clenched his jaw, trying to figure out exactly what to say.  “I…Sherlock, I want to help, I do.  But I have a job.”

 

“Mycroft will make sure you’re compensated.”

 

“I have a _life_ , Sherlock.  They’re going to need me at the Yard.”

 

“As much as I hate to admit it, Donovan is capable of working in your stead.  She can always call and consult you.  If Mycroft dies, there won’t be much point to your job, anyway.”

 

Mycroft frowned.  “I hardly think it necessary,” he said, “to tear poor Greg away from the world until your case is done, Sherlock.”

 

“Brother dear, don’t you trust my abilities?  I usually have things solved in a matter of days,” Sherlock said.  “And Molly doesn’t mind, do you, Molly?”

 

“Well, of course she—”

 

“I don’t mind,” Molly said decisively.  “Really, I don’t.  Greg, Sherlock’s right.  You have to protect Mycroft if you can.  Sherlock’ll figure out who’s threatening them in no time at all, and you can go back to work…” She smiled.  “I know you won’t be able to live with yourself if something happened to a Holmes on your watch.”

 

“Moll…”

 

“It’s just a few days, Greg.”  She looked to Mycroft.  “It’s the right thing to do.”

 

Mycroft felt horribly out of control and angry for it.  All at once his brother had returned and brought a host of trouble with him—trouble he admittedly hadn’t a clue about until the Adler woman told him about it—and now he was getting a babysitter because they all thought him incapable of protecting himself.

 

“I can assure you, Sherlock,” he seethed, “that I am wholly aware of the present danger and prepared to protect myself against it without disrupting the lives of your friends.”

 

“No, you’re not,” Greg said.  “He’s right.  Sorry, mate, but these people got a picture of you from outside your window when you were alone.  All it would have taken was a semi-decent sniper to kill you.  Someone’s got to be on the watch for you.”

 

He got up from the table and left for the kitchen, and for a moment Mycroft feared he’d left in a fit of anger, but he soon came back in carrying the cake.  “Usually you’re supposed to eat dessert after the meal, and I know you’re all still eating that—well, Sherlock hasn’t touched anything, but that’s typical—but I don’t care,” Greg said, setting the pan down with finality.  “I’m gonna go back in the kitchen and call Donovan and take off work for the next week, off the record, so our enemy doesn’t detect anything, and then I’m gonna come back here and have a fucking piece of cake.


	7. Chapter 7

**YOU PUT YOUR TRUST IN THE WRONG PERSON.  BE PREPARED TO PAY THE PRICE.**

This appeared on John’s phone sometime after dessert, when they’d retreated into the living room of Greg’s house to talk safety measures.  Mycroft looked absolutely horrified as Sherlock and Greg lined out exactly where and when Greg would have to be with Mycroft for protection purposes.  Molly was dutifully interviewing Irene for Sherlock with a few sneaky questions of her own about Irene’s line of work.

 

John knew it would have been the time to speak up and show Sherlock immediately, but the message itself was too threatening.

 

He’d put his trust in the wrong person.  It had to be someone in the room.  Outside of Harry and Mrs. Hudson, these were the only people he’d ever trusted.  And according to the anonymous text, one of them was on the wrong side.

 

His gaze flickered to Irene.  “Miss Adler, what number did you get the picture from?”

 

“Anonymous, love,” she said.  “Had my people try and trace it to no avail.  Whoever it is, they’ve an excellent techie.”

 

John pressed his lips into a thin line and concentrated.  “And they haven’t sent you any texts…with words in them, I mean?”

 

“No.”  She raised an eyebrow.  “Should they have?  I think the picture speaks for itself.”

 

She went back to talking with Molly with an obvious smirk, and John read the text again and again, over and over.  All from an anonymous, untraceable number.  Most likely the same person.

 

Someone in this room, it seemed, was the wrong person to place trust in.  And John had a pretty good idea who it was.  He stayed silent about it until Sherlock announced that it was time to part.  Mycroft left first, thanking Greg and Molly for the meal, and Irene left for her own mysterious shelter.

 

“Sorry, dears, but I can’t tell you where,” she said as she left.  “Wouldn’t want to give you any more dangerous information…”

 

John’s suspicions couldn’t have been more confirmed.  He wanted to tell Sherlock immediately, but Sherlock insisted they take two separate cabs to the two separate hotel rooms under their fake names.

 

“We can’t be seen together much,” Sherlock reminded him.  “I promise I won’t go and do anything you’d classify as ‘stupid.’  You can come to my room after a few hours.”

 

He hated the idea of leaving Sherlock to his own devices in London for more than an hour, but he couldn’t argue with him.  He spent his cab ride alone in complete silence, turning his phone over and over in his hand.

 

Be prepared to pay the price.  The only price John wasn’t willing to pay was Sherlock’s life, which was why he was so worried that Sherlock was exactly what this mission would cost them all.

 

His phone buzzed with another text that nearly sent him flying through the roof of the cab.

 

**Stop worrying.  Wait two hours and come to Room 324.  SH**

John cursed and briefly wondered what to text back.

 

**You know I can’t help myself.  Are you back at the hotel?  JW**

**Sherlock.  Don’t go anywhere else.  Just go back to the hotel and wait.  JW**

**Sherlock???  JW**

**I’m checked in and waiting.  Have a little faith, John.  SH**

He sighed and pocketed his phone, lamenting the fact that he was horribly in love with an inconsiderate, endangered madman.

 

* * *

 

Hours later, he sighed in relief when Sherlock opened the door and quickly ushered him into Room 324, which was already a mess of newspapers, computer print-outs, and maps strewn from each end and pinned to the walls.

 

“Molly printed them for me after she interviewed the Adler woman,” he said by way of explanation.  “Irene Adler’s entire client list, ranked according to position and possible motive.  And here’s Mycroft’s grounds—I pinpointed exactly where the photo must have been taken and the kind of phone it must have been taken from.  All it needs is a bit of cross-referencing.  Did you bring your laptop?”

 

John hadn’t, but he was too dazed by the sudden influx of information to answer.

 

“Oh,” Sherlock said shortly.  “Sorry.  I forgot.”

 

He leaned down and grabbed John by the shoulders, kissing him swiftly.  “Hello.  Kissing’s an appropriate greeting, I’m told.”

 

“That’s…good, yeah.  It’s not what I was thinking about, but it’s…good.  I didn’t bring a laptop, sorry.”

 

Sherlock groaned dramatically.  “Well, it’ll be a lot harder to do this in my head, but it’s not entirely impossible.  I think what we’re looking for is outside the Moriarty-Holmes war, a third party, like I said.  Someone who deals in power but never takes a side.  When you narrow it down to that, it’s fairly obvious.”

 

“Sorry, what’s obvious?” John asked, sitting on the edge of the bed and leaning his cane against it.

 

“Our enemy, John!” Sherlock fetched the client list, suddenly very excited.  “Look—top three most powerful employers Irene Adler ever worked for.  The first is in the royal family, the second in Her Majesty’s secret service, and…”

 

John read the list.  “Charles Augustus Magnussen?  He’s…that news guy, yeah?  How is he the third most powerful employer?”

 

“He’s not just in news, John.  He deals in blackmail.  When it comes to the power of information, Magnussen is the most powerful man in Europe, second only to my brother.  He visited Miss Adler three times on business trips here.  Now, tell me—if you’re a man who deals in information, in _news_ , is it more prudent to take a side or to wait it out and get the story from both sides once the battle is over?”

 

“Er…I reckon you’d have to wait.  The news deals in facts, anyway.”

 

“Exactly,” Sherlock said.  “If Irene has information on Magnussen, he doesn’t want it getting out.  He needs to be the one in power by having the monopoly on knowledge.  And he has the network to make sure no matter what Irene does, he stays safe.  He’d have the ability to get someone to kill Mycroft.”

 

“So you’re sure it’s this Magnussen guy?”

 

Sherlock frowned.  “It’s the most obvious solution.  At least worth investigating.  Besides, his home is in Denmark, so I wouldn’t be in danger of arrest.”

 

“I think,” John said with a sigh, “that it’s not a bad guess.  But I don’t think you’re considering other possibilities.”

 

“What other possibilities?  Magnussen sends Irene a photo to prove he has her under his thumb, and he sends you a threatening message that you’ve made a mistake, referring to our involvement with her case.  He wants us to back off.  Simple as that.”

 

John shook his head.  “That’s not the only message I’ve got.  Look here—I got this after dinner.”

 

Sherlock took his phone and squinted at the message.  “ ‘You put your trust in the wrong person.  Be prepared to pay the price.’  This is just a scare tactic, John.”

 

“All right, could be—say you’re right.  Say Magnussen just wants us to back off Irene.  Why this message, then?  Why point out that we made a mistake, and that we’re going to pay, if he’s just trying to scare us off?” John grinded out.  “Let’s just say you’re wrong.  We know that we’ve been getting texts from an anonymous sender, same as Irene, who we’re supposed to trust because all of a sudden, she’s ‘in danger.’  She said she already tried to find the number of the sender but it was untraceable.  But what if it’s not?  What if she knows exactly who’s sending the messages—what if _she’s_ the one sending them?”

 

Sherlock didn’t even bother to smirk.  “Really, John?  I would have been able to tell if she was lying.”

 

“You’ve been wrong before, Sherlock.  You didn’t know Moriarty had you figured out until it was nearly too late.”

 

“That’s irrelevant.”

 

“It’s completely bloody relevant!” John shouted.  “Look at the facts—you put Irene in danger, but suddenly she’s completely okay with that and she goes to you for help!  She should want you dead for what you did.  And I think she does.”

 

“Even if the picture of Mycroft was just a ruse to get us to London,” he reasoned, “why would she bother sending us a message that says we trusted the wrong person?  She’d be referring to herself!”

 

“I…I dunno, she’s trying to throw us off, like you said!  Make us sniff out which one of our friends is a traitor so we’re distracted from what she’s really trying to do!  It’s not impossible, is it?”

 

“It’s—highly unlikely,” Sherlock said.  He was visibly trying to keep his composure, John could see.  His hands were gripping the lists so tightly they were beginning to crumple.  “Why wouldn’t she have killed us already?”

 

“Maybe that’s not what she wants!   Maybe she’s waiting!  I don’t fucking know!” John spit out.  “I think she’s playing us.  She got us to London, where you’re unsafe, and she could do anything she wants with us.  She’s a dominatrix, Sherlock.  She likes being in power.  When you released her identity, you became more powerful than her, and she’s getting back at you.  She could threaten you—reveal you to the police and get you locked up or killed—and demand that Mycroft fix it and give her the security she needs.”  John was certain he’d figured it out.  He stood up and faced Sherlock, clenching his hands into fists.  “She found you when no one else should have been able to and lured you back into danger with the one thing that would bring you back to London—your brother.  And now she’s going to use you as leverage to get Mycroft to save her arse while you’re too busy trying to solve a made-up case!”

 

“You’re wrong,” Sherlock seethed, but John wasn’t having any of it.

 

“I’m not—you know I’m not.  You’re just too proud to admit you’ve been played.  We need to leave London now, and tell Mycroft not to give her what she wants.  She’s exploiting our fears right now to keep us under her thumb.”

 

“With all due respect, _John_ ,” Sherlock said, “you’re not exactly the one who’s made a life out of detecting criminals in your wake.”

 

“No.  You’re right.  I’m not.”  John took one step closer to Sherlock, gaze completely unwavering and very nearly deadly.  “But I’m not bloody stupid.  I followed the trail you and Moriarty set months ago.  I solved those cases all by myself—without _you_.  So think twice about ignoring what I have to say, because there was a time, Sherlock Holmes, when I didn’t need you to get things _right_.”

 

He was quite certain that he’d gone too far—or maybe not far enough.  Sherlock was sure to kick him out and give him the silent treatment for weeks for this.  But he held his ground. 

 

Sherlock stared at him, looking unfathomably angry, and then seized John’s face and kissed him fiercely.  John yelped in surprise as Sherlock kicked the cane from his hands and shoved him onto the bed behind them, practically dragging him further up the bed so John’s head hit the pillows with and odd _whumph_.

 

“Sherlock—” he managed before Sherlock attacked his mouth with hot, angry kisses, and then he gave up and kissed him back.  Sherlock’s hands were suddenly everywhere, tugging his shirt out of his trousers and snaking up the insides of John’s arms until he had both of John’s hands in his own, and he roughly pinned them up against the headboard.

 

John squirmed underneath him, struggling his intense anger—not just about not believing his story, but about the time Sherlock really had left him alone.  Irene was right.  He was thinking about it now, when he should have been out of his mind with wanting this man, and he hated Sherlock for it.  He hated Sherlock for the days he’d spent alone, trying to remember what his friend would say in a difficult situation.  When John had been the one everyone depended on to save the country from the most evil man he’d ever known.

 

He wasn’t even concretely angry about the pain, the leg, the explosion and fire and gunshot wound.  Those things were out of Sherlock’s control, but the months he’d chosen to let John believe he’d been abandoned…

 

The anger left a white-hot coil in his belly, making his body thrum with the violence of it that immediately mixed in his passion-addled brain.  Suddenly he found himself pressing into Sherlock’s body, hating the body that was making him vibrate with unbelievable anger but mad for its touch.

 

Sherlock’s lips were firm and almost painful on his, tongue delving deep into his mouth and stroking John’s, and John tried to fight against Sherlock’s hold so he could reach down and touch him and cradle his face and pull him closer.  He whined against Sherlock’s mouth and Sherlock pulled away, glaring down at John.

 

“Don’t mention it again,” he warned him, panting.  “I mean it.  If you ever mention that man again, I will—”

 

“You’ll what?” John shot back.  “Don’t just fucking tell me what you’re going to do, Sherlock.  _Show_ me.” 

 

He wrapped his legs around Sherlock’s waist and purposefully rocked his hips, making Sherlock groan in response.  He finally, _finally_ released John’s hands and dragged his own down to John’s shirt, which he quickly pulled off.  He made to pull off his own shirt, too, but with free hands, John grabbed him by the shoulders and pulled him up, laving kisses down Sherlock’s jawline and sucking hard against the little nub of bone at the end of it.  He poured kisses all over the white skin of Sherlock’s neck, trailing his fingernails down Sherlock’s spine while Sherlock struggled against collapsing onto John’s chest.

 

He dipped his tongue into the ‘v’ of Sherlock’ collarbone and the detective finally gave up on holding himself up, dropping onto John and rocking against him.  He kissed the underside of John’s jaw messily, scraping at the skin with his teeth roughly until John was bucking against him and scrabbling to remove Sherlock’s shirt.

 

“I am so _fucking pissed_ at you,” John hissed at Sherlock.  He didn’t get a reply, as Sherlock was too busy doing delightful things to John’s chest with his tongue.  He’d always been a bit self-conscious about his chest after leaving the military, since he definitely wasn’t as fit as he used to be, but Sherlock was downright worshipping it with his hands and tongue at the moment.  He curled his fingers into Sherlock’s short hair, perhaps a bit too tightly, which earned him a few nips around the ribs.  “Do you hear me?  _Fuck_ …I’m…”

 

Sherlock growled against John’s stomach and all but tore at his trousers, unzipping them and pulling them off with his pants in a matter of seconds and applying a blinding pressure to his cock.  John gasped as his vision went white, and when it returned after a few seconds, Sherlock was similarly undressed and pushing something into his hands.

 

“ _Do_ it,” he said urgently.  “Now.”

 

John blinked in disbelief at the objects in his hands.  Lube and a condom.  Completely ordinary, appropriate items.  Items he’d yet to use with Sherlock.  “Now?”

 

“ _Now_.”

 

John looked up at him a bit wonderingly, still clutching both, and thought with the few remaining bits of sanity he had left in his head.  Sex.  With Sherlock.  Like he’d been imagining for months now without the opportunity to feel what it would be like, to slide so perfectly against Sherlock…

 

He gulped and slammed Sherlock backwards onto the bed, climbing over him.  Sherlock grunted at the sudden flip but kept his eyes trained on John, who was spreading his legs apart.

 

He was ready to do it.  Goodness knows he wanted to, more than anything.  It was all he could think of.  He’d go mad if he didn’t.

 

But Sherlock was glaring at him, completely and utterly consumed with lust and anger, and underneath that…hurt.  The tiniest glint of guilt that John knew wouldn’t go away right away, not without work and time.

 

He swallowed hard, reconsidering.

 

“ _DO_ it, John!” Sherlock begged, pulling him closer, but John pushed himself off and sat at the head of the bed.

 

“No, Sherlock.”  He sighed deeply and put the condom and lube on the side of the bed.  “Not tonight.”

 

“Why not?”

 

“Because I want you to know how much I love you when it happens.  And I’m too pissed at you to do it the way you deserve.”

 

Sherlock blinked in confusion, still lying in wait.  “I don’t understand.”

 

“Just go to sleep, Sherlock.  We’ll talk in the morning.”


	8. Chapter 8

John hadn’t had more than forty-eight hours to get used to the feeling of Sherlock cuddling close to him in his sleep, but he already could tell when the familiar weight was gone from the bed.

 

He woke up fitfully, looking around the dimly lit room for a glimpse of him.  The room was completely empty and dark except for the early morning sun peeking through the blinds.

 

“Shit,” he said silently, digging around for his phone.  “Shit, shit, _fucking_ shit, that wanker…” He found his phone, chucked under the bed after last night’s proceedings, and checked it for messages.

 

Last night’s proceedings, indeed.  Why the _fuck_ had he let it go that far?

 

He dialed Sherlock’s number, not caring that he preferred to text, when the man himself came in the room after a brief struggle with the key card.  “Coffee,” he said in greeting, holding up two cups and not meeting John’s eyes.  “Didn’t think you’d be up.”

 

“You could have texted.  I was terrified.”

 

“Mmm.”  Sherlock set John’s cup a few feet in front of him and propped up his cane so John could get up and reach it.

 

John wasn’t too angry about that—Sherlock wasn’t very tactile when he was angry and he wanted to get up and walk around, anyway.  He got up and hobbled over to the desk to pick up his coffee and took a sip of the scalding stuff.  “So,” he said tentatively, “are we going to talk about last night?”

 

Sherlock frowned.  “Well.  It was good while it lasted.  I’ve already checked out, so you needn’t worry.  Mycroft’s considering letting me stay with him.”

 

“Sorry, what?”

 

“I’m leaving,” Sherlock said plainly.  “I…well, you’ll probably be wanting to be going back to your life here.  I thought a no-fuss separation would be—”

 

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” John said.  “Seriously—what do you mean, you’ve checked out?  You can’t stay with Mycroft, you’ll both be in even more danger.  We already agreed I would watch you while Greg watched Mycroft…”

 

“But I assumed—” Sherlock coughed.  “Well.  I assumed it would be more difficult for you to be around me, considering…”

 

“Considering what?”

 

“That we’re not together anymore.”

 

John’s mouth dropped open in shock, and he could have sworn that his heart actually stopped for a few horrified seconds, before he realized whom exactly he was talking to.  Then he collapsed, genuinely _collapsed_ , in body-wracking, unmanly giggles.

 

Sherlock frowned.  “What is it?”

 

“You—you _actually_ think—bloody hell, you ridiculous bastard—you think we broke up last night?” John said between wheezes.

 

“The evidence suggested…” Sherlock squinted.  “We’re not broken up?”

 

“Well, I don’t think we ever put a label on what we are, but whatever it is, it certainly isn’t over between us,” John gasped.  He straightened himself up and asked him, “Did you seriously think I ended it last night?”

 

“You were angry.  You didn’t want to—John, you were giving me every possible sign that—”

 

“—That I was basically pissed off at you, but not about to break up with you.”  John chuckled and walked toward Sherlock.  “People fight.  We fought even when we were just friends.  It doesn’t mean—oh, Sherlock, it doesn’t mean for a second that I’m not—that I don’t love you.  I do.  You _know_ I do.”

 

Sherlock looked utterly lost.  “You’re—so, we’re still together, then?”

 

“Yes.  Check yourself back in.  You’re not going anywhere.”  John carefully reached out to Sherlock and ran a few fingers through his hair, still privately lamenting the haircut.  “We should probably talk about last night, though.”

 

“I was a prat.”

 

“We were both proper prats.  You’re just trying to solve a case and I’m just trying to keep you protected.  Those two goals are pretty much on opposite ends of the safety spectrum.  And you need to know that…I’m sorry.  For what I said about you being gone.  I know it wasn’t a decision you made lightly, and you never meant to hurt me.”

 

He nodded.  “I’m…sorry, too.  But I’m not sure where it puts us.”

 

“What d’you mean?”

 

“We can’t—it’s always going to hang over his,” Sherlock struggled to say properly.  “Every time we’re together, we’re going to be thinking about it, and it drives me up a bloody wall that I can’t make anything I did right.”

 

John shook his head.  “I told you we’re on the right track.”

 

“You still haven’t forgiven me yet,” Sherlock reminded him spitefully.

 

“I’ve forgiven you for last night, and you’ve forgiven me.  We’re getting there,” John argued.  “Besides, I’ve been thinking, and I reckon you’re right about Magnussen.  Or at least I think it’s worth a go.  He lives in Denmark, so you _wouldn’t_ be in danger there, and if you’re right then the case is solved.  If I’m right…well, we can investigate Irene discreetly from now on.”

 

“You think we should see Magnussen?”

 

“Like _you_ aren’t already raring to go.” John finished off his coffee with a slurp and smiled.  “So we’re good then?”

 

“Yes,” Sherlock said, a bit bemused.  John nodded and made to leave for his own hotel room when Sherlock stopped him and said, “Actually, no.  Not quite.”

 

He turned around and raised an eyebrow.  “Sorry?”

 

“Not quite good.  Yet.” Sherlock took two long strides over to him and caught his face in his hands.  “I haven’t told you good morning yet.”

 

“Oh.  Good morning.”

 

“Good morning,” Sherlock said with an uncharacteristically shy grin, and he leaned in and kissed John very gently on the lips.

 

John tried to lean up into the kiss, but his leg was already aching like it did most mornings and he didn’t have the best grip on his cane.  Sherlock noticed immediately and released him.  “Your leg,” he said sadly.

 

John shook his head and backed up against the door.  “Come here,” he said softly, placing Sherlock’s arms around his hips, and he dropped his cane to the ground and cupped Sherlock’s face.  Sherlock immediately shifted his weight so he could support John without the both of them toppling over, and John sighed and focused on kissing Sherlock.

 

It was gentle—different.  It was slow moving and it didn’t promise anything more than what it was.  Most of their kisses had the underlying passion that invited something more, but this was just a simple ‘good morning’ and ‘hello’ and ‘I love you.’  John had to admits that he hadn’t had many kisses like it.

 

He pulled away after a few seconds and noticed that Sherlock had a rare dreamy expression on his face, which he decided to take advantage of.  “I do love you,” he said quietly.

 

“I know,” Sherlock replied.  “I love you, too.  Now let’s go break into the house of a blackmail king.”

  

* * *

 

 

Greg sighed heavily on the doorstep of Mycroft’s enormous estate.  It wasn’t that he wasn’t prepared for protecting Mycroft—he had at least three different guns on underneath his coat.  It wasn’t even that he wasn’t happy about having to do it.  It wasn’t a bad job.  Mycroft was a nice man, if a bit smarmy, and he was easier to deal with than his brother.

 

He just wasn’t quite sure what he was going to _do_ all day.

 

A series of stoic butlers and maids ushered him in through the huge house, which was dark and cavernous in the very early morning, and led him to a finely upholstered office where Mycroft was already fully dressed and working studiously on a pile of files.

 

“Detective Inspector Lestrade,” he addressed him over the work, “thank you for coming.  I apologize for the inconvenience.”

 

“It’d be less of an inconvenience if you just called me Greg,” he said with a bit of whine.  He stood awkwardly in the room, not sure where to sit or what to say.

 

Mycroft spoke for him.  “Any of the chairs are free to use.  I took the liberty of having my window cleaners come in and…reinforce the windows.  We’re both safer from outside snipers.”

 

“If snipers were the worry, what would be the point of having me here?”

 

“Break-ins, of course.  I’m not usually in favor of indulging my brother when it comes to security, but I trust he’ll have the case solved before long and the Adler woman will be out of our hair.  You’ll be able to go back to business as usual within a few days.”

 

“I know,” Greg said, settling into a rather uncomfortable leather chair.  “Not a problem, like I said.”

 

Mycroft smiled tightly and went back to his work, and there was only the sound of the ticking clock on the wall while Greg felt increasingly more awkward and out of place.  Every few seconds he’d hear the shuffle of papers as Mycroft finished a file, and out of sheer boredom (even though he knew he really shouldn’t be interrupting Mycroft from running the government), he asked, “So, er…what are you working on, then?”

 

Mycroft sighed heavily.  “Diplomatic paperwork for an upcoming meeting with Germany.  Background checks on the dignitaries.  You can never be too careful.”

 

“Right.  Anything…I dunno, anything I could help with?”

 

“Do you speak German, Greg?”

 

“Er, no.”

 

Mycroft smiled again and didn’t bother to reply.  He went back to his work and Greg resisted the urge to walk over and peek at what he was up to.  He slowly got up and began to walk around the room.  “Do you mind?”

 

“Not at all.”

 

Greg took a good look at the details of the room.  Everything here was ornate and extremely expensive down to the very last detail.  Austere paintings were on the walls, and Greg even recognized a few famous ones and marveled at how close these copies were.  It crossed his mind that Mycroft might actually have the originals, and the museums he’d seen them in only had fakes.

 

“So…bit of a lavish decorator, then?”

 

“The estate came with the artwork and I haven’t been bothered to change the rooms.  Besides,” Mycroft added without looking up, “it all comes with the job.  Gives it an air of importance.”

 

“Right,” Greg said.  “So…you haven’t decorated anything here?”

 

“Why does it matter?”

 

“I was just wondering.  Since we’re going to be spending most of the day together and we’ve known each other for so long now, I thought I’d try and make out the type of things you like.”

 

Mycroft raised a sleek eyebrow.  “You want to know my tastes in _decorating_?”

 

“It’s a start.”  Greg felt incredibly awkward asking, and Mycroft’s disbelieving stare wasn’t helping.  “Sorry, it’s a stupid question.  You’re really busy…”

 

Mycroft continued to stare for at least thirty seconds (maybe less, but it felt like thirty to Greg) and abruptly stood up from his desk.  “Come with me.”

 

“What?”

 

“You _heard_ me.  I’ve something to show you.”

 

He left the room swiftly and Greg tailed close behind, winding through darkened halls and up a flight of stairs until they got to a large wooden door.  With a conspiratorial smile, Mycroft said, “This is the one room I bothered to change.  I’ve the only key—not even the servants can come in here.  It doesn’t take much upkeep, though.”

 

He withdrew a brass key from his pocket and Greg was momentarily worried that he was about to show him something terrifying like a sex dungeon or worse.

 

The door opened with a click and Mycroft led him in.

 

The room wasn’t too large or well-furnished.  There was just one couch in a pale brown that stretched around two sides of the room, and the other two were covered with floor-to-ceiling mahogany bookcases.  Nearly every shelf was stacked with books except for one, which had a few picture frames on it.

 

Greg walked over without a word to look at them and laughed to himself when he saw that nearly all the pictures were of Mycroft and Sherlock, sometimes with two unidentified adults whom Greg assumed must be their parents.

 

Sherlock wasn’t smiling in many of the posed pictures, but the majority of the photos must have been taken when he wasn’t paying attention.  He had an enormous smile on his face in one picture where he was beating Mycroft at chess (which Greg didn’t know was possible) and in another where he was a child embracing a shaggy red dog.

 

“I confess I’m a bit sentimental about this room,” Mycroft said.  “Sherlock doesn’t know about it.  I didn’t always have the pictures…”

 

“When did you get them?”

 

Mycroft sighed.  “About a week after Sherlock left the country.”

 

Greg nodded solemnly.  “I never really thought about how that made you feel.  Everything with Moriarty.”

 

Mycroft considered waving it off, but the mere mention of the entire ordeal made him tired and not a little guilty.  Instead he sat down on the couch and stretched out his long legs.  “Sherlock has no idea—no one really does.”

 

“It must have been difficult.”

 

“Oh.  Well, yes, that wasn’t easy certainly.  What I meant was no one understands how much I care about him.  And no one should.  It’s because of sentiment that Moriarty ever went after him in the first place.”

 

“Mycroft…” Lestrade cleared his throat at Mycroft’s sudden admittance of emotion.  “It’s not a weakness to care about your brother.  It’s not a weakness to care about anyone.  It can be a strength at times.”

 

“I don’t think so.” Mycroft gestured to the bookshelves.  “This is more my… _style_.  A comfortable room, no fuss, with plenty of books.”

 

“I like it,” Greg said decisively.  “It’s very…you.  And the picture of little Sherlock is bloody precious.”

 

“You can take your pick of the books.  I imagine you didn’t bring anything to occupy yourself with while I work.”

 

“No,” he admitted.  “I actually…I don’t know why.  I sort of thought this would be some sort of sleepover or something.  I forgot that you have a ton of work to do.”

 

Mycroft frowned.  “Well…I suppose I could…put some of it off.”

 

“Seriously?  Isn’t that all pressing stuff?”

 

“Yes, very.  But other countries have put off more important things, anyway.  Besides, if we’re being watched, it won’t arouse suspicion if we go about doingfriendly activities.  A man sitting around me with a gun indicates we’re onto their game.”

 

“Sounds about right.”  Greg thought for a moment.  “Er, what do you usually do with your friends?”

 

“I don’t really…entertain,” Mycroft mused.

 

“What, really?  No foreign dignitaries ever go out for a pint with you?  No politicians ever come over for a Bond movie marathon?”

 

Mycroft look irritated.  “Well, I _am_ rather busy.”

 

Greg shook his head and offered Mycroft a hand.  “Up.  I know what we’re doing.  You have a kitchen?”

 

“Obviously.”

 

“Fully stocked.”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Then come on—I know what we’re going to do,” Greg said with a grin.  “We’re going to bake a cake.”

 

“Is this some sort of joke?  We’re two grown men over forty…”

 

“I know, but you’ve never had a proper friend over and the only thing I know you like for sure is cake, so we’re doing this.  We’re going to pretend we’re teenage girls at a slumber party.”

 

Mycroft let out a rather unmanly giggle.  “Very well.  Perhaps after a Bond movie marathon.  You did suggest that.”

 

 


	9. Chapter 9

The trip to Denmark itself got more pleasant as the distance increased between them and England.  John was rigid with fear the minute they stepped onto the confined train, cataloguing the emergency exits and possible escapes with enough detail to alarm and impress even Sherlock Holmes.

 

“We’re going to be _fine_ ,” Sherlock insisted, though he himself was a bit stiff as the train began to move.

 

John didn’t respond until they’d emerged from the tunnel under the ocean and made it away from the dangerous isle.

 

Sherlock began to nervously prattle on about the details of Magnussen’s house and its secret vaults.  “It’s called Appledore,” he explained, “and it holds hard copies of all the information he has on everyone of importance in Europe.  It’s an extensive underground system of file cabinets, none of it’s online…”

 

John nodded anxiously, spying land again.  “You have a plan, then?”

 

“Of course.”

 

“Does the plan involve disguises?”

 

“Possibly.”

 

“Is it more or less walking into his house and demanding an audience?”

 

“That’s exactly the plan.  I think you’re getting to know me better.”

 

John groaned.  “Seriously?  We’re not going in without any back-up?”

 

“Magnussen is our man—I’m positive he’ll be expecting us.  He wants to know that Irene isn’t going to spill the beans on anything he has.  He’s just as frightened as her; he just has more power than her.”

 

“Are you sure?”

 

“Positive.”  Sherlock smirked.  “Have a little faith in me.”

 

John relaxed just a bit, and an idea wormed its way into his head that made him thankful for the private cabin Sherlock secured for them when buying train tickets.  He crossed from one side of the cabin to the other and sidled up to Sherlock, who was staring stoically out the window.

 

“Nice place, this,” he commented.  “Very private.”

 

Sherlock turned his head and looked at him with raised eyebrows for a moment, and then he smiled and all but attacked John with kisses.

 

* * *

 

“I’m not quite sure that’s how you do it,” Mycroft said pointedly.  He reached for the bowl Greg was currently laboring over, practically grinding the ingredients together, but Greg wouldn’t have it.

 

“This is how you make cake,” he insisted.  “Who’s the expert here?  How many cakes have you made?”

 

“I know enough to know that you mix the flour and sugar together before you add the milk—you’re making a mess.”  Mycroft wrenched the bowl over and inspected its contents.  “We’ll have to start over.  Fetch the flour and sugar again.”

 

Greg grumbled and made his way around the stainless steel kitchen, stocked to the brim with cabinets and appliances with French names he couldn’t hope to remember.  “Blimey, do you really use all this stuff?”

 

“I have a butler and a cook, and a few maids.  They use what they need.”

 

“Do you ever make anything yourself?”

 

“On very rare occasions.”

 

“Oh.”  Greg found the flour and deposited it on the island in the middle of the kitchen.  “I’m flattered.”

 

“I would assume,” Mycroft said, measuring the dry ingredients into the bowl while Greg could only watch, “that Miss Hooper takes care of all your dietary needs now.”

 

“Hmm?  Oh, yes.  Moll’s the best about cooking.  Says she’s been doing it for years on her own, which I guess she’d have to.  She makes sure I don’t eat things out of a can more often than not.”

 

“She’s a lovely woman.”

 

“She is.  I’m lucky to have her.”  Greg frowned.  “Have you ever…er, had someone…like Molly?”

 

“I have a cook, as I said.”

 

“Now, don’t be obtuse—you know what I mean.  Have you ever…liked someone?  Had a relationship?”

 

Mycroft stopped his mixing. “I’m assuming this is the part of these ‘friend activities’ where you attempt to delve more into my personal life.  I will inform you that you will be very disappointed should you continue.”

 

“I’m only asking—Sherlock’s got John.  Have you ever had anyone?” Greg had the grace to blush.  “Sorry, not like that, I mean…y’know, boyfriends, girlfriends…”

 

“You said boyfriend first,” Mycroft pointed out.  “You assume because my brother is in a relationship with a male that the Holmes brothers have a proclivity for males?”

 

“I was only _asking_.  Both are fine, mate.”

 

Mycroft considered that while slowly pouring milk into the bowl.  “I don’t have time.  Nor the inclination.  You must know by now that Sherlock and I operate on a higher level of human intellect than the majority of people, and we find it tedious to interact with the lower levels.  The idea of _dating_ someone like that is…less than appealing.”

 

He ignored the obvious slight to his own intellect.  “John’s not like Sherlock, though.  He sort of…calms him down.  Makes him human.”

 

“You want to know if I’ve ever met someone who makes me more human?” Mycroft asked.

 

“I suppose.  Yeah.”

 

He simply looked at him for a long moment, and Greg couldn’t tell what to make of his face—was he confused, or angry, or was Greg missing something?  Finally he just set the mixing spoon down and simply said, “Fetch the eggs.”

 

* * *

 

John tried to keep track of all the different transportation it took to get them to Magnussen’s home, but it was all a jumbled mix of trains and private cars with darkened windows and even a helicopter, which Sherlock explained as a gift from his brother.

 

“Well,” he said, “when I say gift…”

 

“You nicked it off him.  You nicked a helicopter off your brother.”

 

“You really are getting to know me better.”

 

Finally, the helicopter landed in the immaculately green yard of Appledore, a mansion so futuristic that John found it hard to believe that it wasn’t some set piece for a sci-fi drama on BBC.  The entire building swirled upward toward the sky, set with floor-to-ceiling windows that betrayed a bright interior.  Already he could see a man inside, or at least his silhouette, standing behind a window with his arms crossed.

 

“I think he’s expecting us,” he said warily.

 

“As I told you he would be.  Don’t worry so much, John—he’s not a criminal.  He doesn’t want to kill anyone.  His primary goal is keeping his information safe.  All we have to do is see if he’s the one behind the texts and negotiate.”  Sherlock smiled as the helicopter touched down and the huge blades above them slowed to a stop.  They exited the helicopter and began to walk across the lawn and up the steps into the lion’s den.

 

“Seriously, Sherlock, at the first sign of danger—”

 

“It’s a _negotiation_ , John, and you’ve brought your gun.  Keep your hand on it the whole time if it calms you down.  I promise you nothing will happen.”

 

“Do you know how many times you’ve said that and been wrong?” John asked, exasperated, but Sherlock waved him off and rang the doorbell.

 

“It is open, Mr. Holmes…” a creaky voice said from within.  “Don’t be shy…come in.”

 

John gave one last despairing look to Sherlock, who rolled his eyes and reminded him, “ _We’re not in England anymore_.”  With a quick turn of the door knob, the pair was inside the pure white room, facing a man in a suit with glasses and light hair.

 

“Apologies,” he said in heavily-accented English.  “I do not keep a butler or maid around.  I try and limit my staff to minimize…misinformation.  Sherlock Holmes.  Welcome to Appledore.”

 

“Mr. Magnussen.”

 

“And _you_ must be John Watson!” Magnussen said, his weak blue eyes lighting up with joyful recognition.  “Of course.  I do so enjoy your blog, though it has not been updated of late.”

 

“Yeah, well, we’ve not been solving many cases out of the country,” John explained gruffly.

 

“Oh yes.  What a shame, that.  I really liked the story of Mr. Holmes’ involvement with Mr. Moriarty.  It did wonders for my business—surely you know I run a little newspaper or two,” he said with a chuckle.  “It’s quite terrible that I never got to print the truth of it, but…I wouldn’t have sold any papers, you see.”

 

“You…” John cleared his throat.  “You know that story?  You know Sherlock was innocent?”

 

“Pfff.  Innocent…is not a word I’d use,” Magnussen laughed.  “But to answer your question, Dr. Watson, I did know, at the time, what his plan was.  You see, I make it my business to know everyone’s pressure point.  Perhaps Mr. Holmes told you.  And I’ve known for quite some time that his pressure point is _you_ , just as he is for you.  Very balanced, very neat.  Very helpful.”  He gestured to his long white couch.  “Sit?  We will talk.”

 

Sherlock went forward with John following grudgingly behind, feeling less safe every second.  It didn’t matter that they couldn’t be arrested for treason in Denmark—this man seemed _off_.  And if Sherlock was right, and he was the King of Blackmail… Well, he already knew what it would take to get either of them to do something they didn’t want to do.

 

“I would offer you a drink,” Magnussen continued from his couch, “but everything I have is…quite expensive.  To what do I owe the pleasure of your visit?”

 

“I have questions.”

 

“Doubtless for an investigation.  You must think I’m the culprit behind some terrible plot.”  Magnussen stretched a grotesque smile over his teeth.  “I cannot tell you how flattered I am.”

 

“You were involved with Miss Irene Adler,” Sherlock said carefully, watching for Magnussen’s body language, “on three occasions.  A client of hers.”

 

Magnussen shivered.  “The things that woman can do with a whip… She’s…a favorite of mine.  Yes.”

 

“On any occasion with Miss Adler, did she force you to reveal any pertinent information?  Something you wouldn’t want getting out?”

 

“That is one of her hobbies, isn’t it?” he asked.  “She does so love to…collect little facts.  Like trading cards.” He smiled eerily at Sherlock.  “Did she ever get anything out of you?”

 

Sherlock swallowed.  “No.  I’m attached to someone else.  Am I to assume she never learned anything from you?”

 

“No, nothing.  I’m a bit more professional than that.”

 

John looked to Sherlock to see if he’d gleaned anything so far.  Magnussen could be lying, but at least Sherlock would know if he was.  However, Sherlock’s face was its usual unfathomable.

 

Magnussen sighed.  “I think…you have come here about the threat to your brother and Miss Adler.  The perilous texts that sent you back to England.”

 

John blinked.  “What?”

 

“Dr. Watson, I deal with news.  I have informants all over the world.  Did you really think I wouldn’t know why you were here?” He laughed again, a chilling laugh that made John want to leave.  _Now_.  “You think I’m the one behind all this.  You think I am threatening Miss Adler to keep quiet…about information she doesn’t even have.  You think I have a quarrel with your brother.”  He mused on that, tapping his chin.  “Well, I already have your brother under my thumb for all I know.  No, I have no involvement in this, Mr. Holmes.  Stop clenching your fists so, Dr. Watson.  Your delicious boyfriend made a mistake.  Start back at square one.”

 

“Right.”  John looked to Sherlock, expecting an argument, but Sherlock simply remained where he was, fingers steepled, looking intently at Magnussen.  “Sherlock.  We’re done here.”

 

“You know who sent the texts.”

 

“Of course.  I’m a big fan of their work.  Once this is all resolved, I’m going to make a fortune.”

 

“Couldn’t be inclined to tell us, could you?”

 

“I could…” Magnussen shook his head.  “But I don’t like to get something for nothing, Mr. Holmes.  It’s just the way I work.”

 

“A trade then.  That’s what you’re looking for.”

 

“A…trade.  Yes.”  Magnussen leaned toward Sherlock, a bit too close for John to be comfortable with.  “Here is what I offer.  I tell you who you’re looking for.  I tell you who is sending the texts and why, because I swear to you, you have been mistaken.  I will even sweeten the deal—I will secure your safety in England.  I have the contacts and the information to grant you immunity from English law.  You can go back to your life in 221b with your lovely little pet without persecution.  I shall even print the real story of your time with Moriarty.”

 

Sherlock didn’t react.  “In exchange for…?”

 

“Irene Adler.”

 

“I thought she didn’t have anything on you,” John said.  “I thought—”

 

“Miss Alder does not have any information on me, no,” Magnussen clarified, “but she does possess a great deal I could use.  And when I’m done with her, I can use her for a bit of fun…and then I will grow bored of her.  And then I shall do what I wish.”

 

“I think I know what you’re implying.”

 

“What does it matter to you, Dr. Watson?  You’re highly suspicious of her.  Wouldn’t it be nice to get her out of your life?” Magnussen asked.  “In any case, it is Mr. Holmes’ decision.  Information for Irene.  A more than fair trade.”

 

Sherlock stood up.  “You’ll tell me everything you know, and ensure my safety in London.  But Miss Adler…”

 

“Correct.”  Magnussen extended his hand.  “Do we have a deal?”

 

Sherlock shook his head.  “Thank you for the offer, Mr. Magnussen, but I will have to decline it.”

 

“Sorry?” John blurted.

 

“No, I’m afraid that won’t do.  Thank you for your time and indulgence, Mr. Magnussen.  I’m sure we’ll spar again soon.”

 

Magnussen nodded.  “I assumed as much.  Though I do pity you, Mr. Holmes.”

 

“And why is that?”

 

“Because I wasn’t wrong, what I said before.  The person who is texting you is not threatening you, Miss Adler, or Mycroft.  No one is in danger.” He smiled sadly.  “I thought you were smart enough to see a ruse.”

 

“Who says I haven’t seen it?”

 

“You wouldn’t be in England if you had.  And since I want you to live to see the next time you and I meet, I will indulge you with one little clue,” Magnussen said.  “The person you seek is not threatening to kill anyone, yet.  They just wanted you back in England.  John was already with you, so the next person to target to trigger your return is your dear brother.”

 

Sherlock narrowed his eyes.  “Who would want me back in England?”

 

“An enemy,” he said simply.  “Goodbye, Mr. Holmes, Dr. Watson.  Til we meet again.”

 

Without another word, Sherlock marched out the door with his coat flying out behind him, and John tailed behind him.  He shouted to the helicopter pilot in Danish and the huge machine began to whir and prepare to take off.

 

“Sherlock,” John called out behind him.  “Sherlock, stop!  We have to discuss this!”

 

“We’ve been _tricked_ ,” Sherlock hissed.  “I let someone trick me.  I let that horrid woman trick me, and you were right, John.  You were completely right—it was a ruse.”

 

“It’s fine.  We’ll stay out of the country.  We’ll go back to Prague.  It’s _fine_.”

 

“We can’t just let it go unsolved, John.  Someone wanted me back in England for a reason, and if I haven’t been arrested by the authorities yet, it means they don’t want to make me submit to them.  They want me to submit to their own power, not the law.”  Sherlock smacked his forehead.  “What am I missing?  What?  _What is it_?  The texts, they said we’d made a mistake, that someone we trusted was working against us.  What was the mistake?  How long ago did I make it?”

 

“Hey, hey—just, just calm down, all right?” John shouted over the noise of the helicopter blades.  “Maybe let’s just get on and talk it over, yeah?  Get away from here?”

 

Sherlock stared at John brokenly.  “What am I missing, John?  It’s someone we trust.  Someone I…No.”

 

“What?  It’s not _me_ , Sherlock, I’m not the one behind this!”

 

“I know, I know—that’s obvious.  That means it’s Mycroft, or Molly, or Greg, or Mrs. Hudson, or the Woman—I need to get back to London, I need to watch more closely.”

 

“Could you just explain to me why you need to?  Whoever it is, they only want to hurt you.  If you run away, they lose.”

 

“They won’t lose.  They got me back once—if I ran, they’d only come after the one thing that I couldn’t stay away from,” Sherlock said, looking at John rather pointedly.  “I can’t risk that.  We get back to London, we find out who it is.  That’s the end of it.”  Sherlock boarded the helicopter and John followed, fitting the headphones on their heads and sitting in frenzied silence as the helicopter took off.

 

“Not Mycroft,” Sherlock said decisively.  “Can’t be Mycroft.”

 

“Maybe he wanted you back here.”

 

“He was too surprised to see me at Greg and Molly’s.  He had no idea I was coming.  Besides, he had no motivation.  He wanted me safe, even if it was far away.  Not Mycroft.”

 

“So.  Greg?”

 

“Possible.  He has motivation and the means.  I nearly killed him in my time with Moriarty, and he hasn’t forgiven me yet.  He could get anonymous texts sent.”

 

“He’s watching your brother, though.  What about Molly?”

 

“Also possible.  Smart, but she has neither the motivation nor the means.  I never directly hurt her besides blowing off her flirtations, and in her position she couldn’t get the texts and pictures of Mycroft.”

 

“So, Mrs. Hudson?”

 

Sherlock merely laughed.  “No.”

 

“That really just leaves the Woman.  She has the means and the motivation—she wants to get you back for putting her out in the spotlight.  She could try and threaten Mycroft to help her by threatening you.”

 

“That would mean you were completely right.”

 

“That does happen sometimes.” John shook his head.  “You were…brave back there.  But I don’t get what you did.”

 

“You’re wondering why I didn’t hand Miss Adler over to Magnussen.”

 

“I mean, I could understand why if you’re still trying to use her, and I’m not condemning you for what you did.  Magnussen would have…done bad stuff to her, and I may not like her much, but no one deserves that disgusting man all over them.  I just thought…maybe you’d see it as the way to get what you want.  Keep your family safe, get your life back.”

 

Sherlock frowned and looked straight ahead through the windshield of the helicopter.  “I considered it.”

 

“Why didn’t you do it?”

 

Smiling lightly, he looked at John.  “Because you wouldn’t have done it.”

 

“Sorry?”

 

“You would never have let someone suffer for your own comfort.  I don’t want to do anything… _anything_ that’s not worthy of you.”

 

John’s mouth hung open in shock, and Sherlock, sufficiently pleased with his reaction, settled back in his chair and continued staring ahead.  After a few minutes of pondering what to say, John hoped that the pilot couldn’t understand what he was about to tell Sherlock.

 

“When we get back to England,” John said quietly, “I am going to take you.  All night.  No interruptions.  Just you and me.”

 

Sherlock quirked up an eyebrow.  “Is that so?  Why tonight instead of last night?”

 

“Because last night I was angry with you, but tonight I don’t think I’ve ever loved you more.”


	10. Chapter 10

The screen buzzed quietly while the credits rolled, having been turned on mute long ago.  Two grown men were sleeping like babies on the huge leather couch of one of Mycroft’s many living rooms, spent after a day of making cake, eating cake, and watching three James Bond movies.

 

Mycroft woke first, startled awake by a quickly forgotten dream.  He didn’t exactly know where he was, but he had the sinking feeling that he’d missed a lot of work he was supposed to do.

 

Then he saw Greg, and he smiled in spite of himself, remembering.  They’d spent a day doing things that he was sure only teenage girls did at slumber parties, and they had been fully aware of how ridiculous they seemed to each other.  But Mycroft had to admit that it was…fun.

 

Carefully he nudged Greg awake.  “Time for you to go home.”

 

“Wha—??” Greg opened his bleary eyes and shook his head.  “What time is it?”

 

“Ten.”

 

“ _Blimey_ , we’re old men.  Falling asleep before midnight.”  Greg swung his legs over the side of his end of the couch and forced himself off.  “You’ll be safe for the night?”

 

“Yes,” Mycroft said.  “I’ll sleep in my library.  No windows, no snipers.”

 

“And there’ll be someone here to watch over you?” Greg asked.  “I mean, bodyguards and such.  They’ve got it under control?”

 

“You needn’t worry about me.  I’m sure your fiancée will be worried if you get home any later.”

 

Greg nodded.  “Right.  Don’t want to keep Moll waiting.”

 

They left the living room and Mycroft’s butler brought Greg his coat.  Before walking out the door, Greg stuck his hand out to Mycroft for an awkward handshake.  “Be seeing you, then.  Bloody hell, what’ll we do tomorrow?  You’ll have work to do.”

 

Mycroft shook his head.  “Not at all.  I’ll think of something.”

 

“I don’t want to keep you from running England or anything,” Greg said, but Mycroft waved off his concern.

 

“My brother will have this all sorted in a matter of days.  Don’t concern yourself with whether or not you’re wasting my time.”  He hesitated, and then said, “I had fun today.  Thank you.”

 

“No problem,” Greg said, and that should have been his cue to leave, but he didn’t.  They remained fixed next to the doorway, unsure of what to say until Greg laughed and said, “I wonder what Sherlock’s up to now.  He’s had a whole day so far to crack the case.”

 

“Oh, I’m sure he’s focusing on some important lead.  He gets obsessive when working.  You know how he is.”

* * *

 

Sherlock wasn’t focusing on some important lead.  He didn’t have his mind on the case at all.  At the moment Mycroft and Greg tried to guess what he was doing, he was actually shoving John Watson against the wall in their hotel room, ruthlessly shoving his hand down John’s pants and stroking him.

 

“ _F-Fuck, Sherlock_ ,” John hissed into his neck, clutching his shoulders hard to keep from moaning obscenely.  “I’m not going to last long if you do that!”

 

“Don’t care,” Sherlock bit into John’s skin.  He sucked hard on John’s pulse point until he heard him gasp.  “Want _you_.”

 

“I want you, too—just take it slow, all right?” John released Sherlock’s shoulders and pushed him lightly with a knowing smile.  “Help me over to the bed.  I want this to last.”

 

Sherlock stopped, breathing hard, and offered John an arm.  They hobbled together a few feet until John could brace himself on the edge of the bed and climb on.  Sherlock sat on the edge, too, waiting for John to right himself, and when he looked ready Sherlock leaned over to tackle him and kiss him again.

 

John stopped him.  “You’re always the one in control,” he chided.  “Not that it isn’t sexy, but…let me have go, yeah?”

 

Sherlock gulped and nodded, feeling his heart race, and lay on his back while John leaned over him and began to kiss him, slowly and gently, running his fingers up Sherlock’s side.

 

He felt impatient, as he always did during sex, but John wasn’t going to hurry up anytime soon.  He kissed him sweetly, barely even opening his mouth at all, and Sherlock growled.

 

“ _Stop_ ,” John whispered, trailing small kisses down Sherlock’s jaw.  Sherlock sighed and focused on the motion of John’s fingers on his side, dragging tiny, maddening patterns through his shirt.  His fingers slowly traveled up and threaded in John’s short hair, bringing his mouth closer to the skin of his neck, and he could feel John’s tongue peek out and swipe against his skin.  His fingers tightened as John began to suck gently and his fingers moved down to play with the bare skin just under the hem of his shirt.

 

Sherlock groaned and bucked his hips up, making John’s subsequent chuckle rumble against his neck.

 

“Not funny,” he whined, dragging John’s head back to his lips and kissing him deeply.

 

“Very funny.”  John pulled his lips away with a smack.  “You’ve done this before.”

 

“Of course.”

 

“But never with someone who loved you as much as I do,” John reminded him.  “I’m trying to make this good for you—stop bloody thinking about it please, for the love of all that’s holy, Sherlock, _stop_ talking.”

 

With a sudden surge over energy, John shoved his hands up and under Sherlock’s shirt, flicking his thumbs over Sherlock’s nipples and lightly pulling his nails back down over his ribs.  Sherlock gasped and leaned up into his touch, reaching for John’s shirt, and with a sharp yank, he got it up and over John’s shoulders.  John pulled Sherlock’s shirt off and sighed when Sherlock pulled him close and buried his face into John’s shoulder.

 

It was true that Sherlock _had_ done this before, with a total of three people.  Twice in uni, once with a man and then with a woman, and both had been entirely unsuccessful.  He hadn’t even gotten off, and both partners left in an unsatisfied huff.  The third time was with Moriarty months ago, and he shuddered to remember those horrible nights.

 

John felt him shake and kissed his brow.  “It’s okay,” he said, reading his mind.

 

Sherlock nodded and let his hands wander over the wide expanse of John’s skin.  There was so much to explore and catalogue, like the feel of his ribs under his fingers, his soft belly and strong shoulders, his beautiful scar.  He ran his right hand over the exit site and tentatively touched the ruined skin there.

 

John groaned, reaching up to cup Sherlock’s face, and kissed him quite differently from before—sloppy, open, hot kisses that made Sherlock feel like he was falling apart.  He felt like he was spinning and losing all logic and coherent thought that didn’t have to do with John Watson above him, stealing filthy kisses from his needy mouth.

 

He tugged at John’s trousers, fumbling around for the belt, and John pressed a swift kiss to his cheek before kneeling upright and pulling them down.  He kicked off his trousers and pants, peeled the jeans off Sherlock, and pushed down his pants, too, lining up their cocks and thrusting once.

 

“ _John_ ,” he gasped, blindly grabbing at the sheets around him.  “ _Please_.”

 

“Do you want to start like this?”

 

“N-no.” He pointed to his bedside table.  “Lube’s in there.”

 

John raised an eyebrow.  “Now?”

 

“Can’t wait.”  He opened his eyes and looked up at John.  “Please.”

 

John nodded and reached for the table’s drawer, picking up a condom and the little bottle of lube.  “You have to tell me if I hurt you.”

 

Sherlock didn’t answer.  His mind, which had been an unintelligible mess just seconds before, was now racing with information and data as he remembered what came next, what would happen when John stretched him, how Moriarty hadn’t even bothered to prepare him for it, and the squirt of lube that alerted him that it was all going to happen again.

 

“Relax, love,” John said quietly.  “I’ve got you.”  He pressed a kiss to his pelvic bone, and another to the inside of his thigh.  “I’m not going to let anything happen to you, I promise.”

 

Part of Sherlock’s brain wanted to tell John to stop being so damned sentimental, but that part was silenced when John carefully circled his hole and pressed his index finger inside a single inch.  All he could do was mumble incoherently, gasping as he adjusted, and John moved his finger deeper inside, unbearably slow.

 

“ _John_ …” A low moan started in Sherlock’s throat.

 

“Does it hurt?”

 

“Erm—no—” Sherlock squirmed on John’s finger.  “ _Feels_ good, just—”

 

John pushed another finger in, and feeling the resistance, he moved his stance so he could take Sherlock’s cock into his mouth and suck on it gently.  He felt Sherlock relax more around his fingers and pressed them deeper, hollowing his cheeks out so Sherlock wouldn’t focus on the stretch.

 

He brushed up against what must have been Sherlock’s prostate, because Sherlock shouted hoarsely and arched into his hand.  He slid off him and asked, “All right?”

 

“ _Again_.  Please, please, John—”

 

He tried to find the right angle again and managed it, leaving Sherlock writhing beneath him.

 

“John, now,” he begged.  “Now.”

 

“Are you sure?”

 

“ _Now_.”

 

John pulled his fingers out and tore open the condom packet, slipping it on and without preamble pushing deep into Sherlock.  He wasn’t sure if he’d stretched him enough, but all Sherlock did was sigh happily and wrap his legs around John’s waist.  He pressed his face into the hollow of John’s throat.

 

John grabbed his hips and thrust into him gently, earning a grateful moan from Sherlock.  “All right?”

 

“Mhmm…”

 

“Okay.” John drew back out again and thrust once more, this time a little harder.  He moved his own hips slowly and shallowly, latching onto Sherlock’s shoulders and kissing down the column of his neck.  He could feel Sherlock’s pulse beat wildly under the thin skin there.  He growled and kissed the pulsepoint, sucking to feel it racing under him.

 

“ _John_ ,” Sherlock whispered.  “Oh, John… _this_ …”

 

“Okay?”

 

“More.” Sherlock arched his throat so John had better access to it and tightened his legs.  “I can take it.”

 

John took his word for it and began to thrust harder, quickening to a nearly vicious pace.  Sherlock gasped hoarsely, and John couldn’t stop grinning.  “You like that, don’t you?”

 

“Y-yes…” Sherlock yanked him up to his mouth and kissed him messily, moaning under John’s mouth.  John kissed him back gratefully and reached between them to wrap his hands around Sherlock’s cock and give it a few long pulls.  Sherlock squirmed beneath him and tilted his hips up so John started to brush against his prostate more often than not.

 

“I love you,” John said, punctuating each thrust with a stroke of his cock.  “I love you, all right?”

 

“I love you, too,” Sherlock whispered back.  His breathing was getting shallower and more frenzied by the minute.  “I’m close…”

 

“Me, too.  I’ve got you, Sherlock.  It’s fine, just let go…”

 

With a hoarse shout of John’s name, Sherlock tensed and tightened around him, and warm wetness bloomed across their stomachs.  He relaxed, sated and moaning, into the bed while John drove the last few thrusts in and came silently, holding himself over Sherlock for a few seconds before collapsing onto him.

 

The two men breathed in the silence for a while, too boneless to move.  John clung to the warmth of the room and Sherlock’s skin and smiled.  He managed to lift his head up enough to stare at Sherlock, who was gazing up at the ceiling in wonder.  “All right?”

 

“Mmm…” Sherlock blinked and looked down to John, and then he grinned.  “Yes.

 “I’m thinking.”

 

“You never stop, do you?”

 

“Oh, be flattered.  I’m only thinking about you, anyway.  You’re quite good at that,” Sherlock mused, pulling him closer.

 

“Oh, thanks.”

 

“Really very good.  The best, actually.  Can we do it again?”

 

“I’m not eighteen anymore, Sherlock.    I need a bit of a rest first.”

 

“Mmm.” Sherlock dropped a kiss on John’s head and bounded out of bed.  “Come on, let’s clean up.

 

John giggled in a decidedly unmanly way and watched him walk to the bathroom, wanting to forget the blackmail and threats and treason and broken legs and pain he’d felt in the past few months in the absolute perfection of the last few minutes.  It didn’t seem too impossible.

 

He heard his phone beep and reached for it.

 

**SAVE THE HOLMES BROTHERS.  MILLENIUM MILLS, NOON TOMORROW.**


	11. Chapter 11

**SAVE THE HOLMES BROTHERS.  MILLENIUM MILLS, NOON TOMORROW.**

John stared at his phone.  The water was running in the bathroom—Sherlock cleaning up—so he only had a few seconds to act.  Barely any time to think, to come off the high of the perfect thing that had just happened—mere seconds.  Time to focus.

 

Obviously the same anonymous number, who knew where he was and what he wanted to do.  The one who’d gotten them back to England, who wanted the Holmes brothers for something…

 

He had to go.  He _had_ to find out what was going on.  Sherlock wasn’t safe until the case was solved.  If the anonymous number was only willing to send texts to John, then John was the only one they wanted to warn.  Maybe he could cut a deal.

 

There wasn’t any reason to think they wanted to kill John.  This was a negotiation.  One that John was ready and willing to go to, for Sherlock and Mycroft’s sakes.

 

He heard the water turn off and panicked.  Sherlock would know something was wrong, and he didn’t know if it was safe for Sherlock to know.  Of course, he wanted Sherlock to know, to figure out what it meant, but this text was clearly for his eyes only.  He didn’t want to know what kind of danger they’d be in if Sherlock knew and tried to work around the enemy.

 

He’d been on his own before.  He’d managed to fight back against the greatest criminal minds in England, once.  He could handle a negotiation.

 

Making a decision, he threw his phone back onto the bedside table and called out to Sherlock.  “Bring me a flannel, will you?”

 

Sherlock emerged from the bathroom with a wet flannel in hand and a small smile.  Without a word, he handed it over to John, who wiped his belly, and flopped down next to him on the bed.  “Are you all right?”

 

“I’m just a bit dazed,” John lied weakly.  “I did just have my cock up a man’s arse for the first time not three minutes ago.”

 

“I do hope I measured up,” chuckled Sherlock, leaning over and kissing John on the cheek.  “You’re not worrying about the case, are you?”

 

“Aren’t you?”

 

“I had my mind on other things, if you can believe it.  I need to recharge, anyway.  I’ve been shorting out—I got everything wrong with Magnussen, and I can’t afford to make stupid mistakes like that anymore.”

 

John grinned and turned on his side to face Sherlock.  He stroked a few fingers through his much-shorter curls and asked, “Are you taking the night off, then?”

 

“Mmm…maybe.  Uncharacteristic of me, I know, but you’ve made quite a sentimental idiot of me.”

 

“Ta.”

 

“You _know_ what I mean.  This case is too close to home for me to treat it objectively.  I need a fresh start tomorrow, and a better night’s sleep.”

 

“You _hate_ sleep, you always stay up all night buzzing.  Even after we’ve…you know.”

 

Sherlock raised an eyebrow.  “Wanking each other off doesn’t take that much energy, pleasurable though it may be.  At least not for me.”

 

“You’re superhuman,” John said, smiling into his skin, and he leaned into Sherlock’s chest and held him close.  “Right, then.  Good night.”

 

“You’re being unusually cuddly,” Sherlock remarked.  “Is it the sentiment of the occasion?”

 

“Something like that.  Go to sleep, you gorgeous idiot,” John said, and even as Sherlock grumbled and settled into holding him, his mind raced.  He did know that when Sherlock did sleep, he couldn’t be bothered to wake up before late afternoon.  He’d have to sneak out in the morning.

 

He couldn’t just leave without protection, so he’d have to bring his gun.  He’d call Mycroft in the morning and tell him where he was going.  Mycroft would understand, and he could even send back-up if the situation required it.

 

He thought about Mycroft fetching Sherlock and keeping him in his house until he came back, but Sherlock would see right through it—and then both brothers would be in the same location.  That wouldn’t do.  Someone would have to come back and watch Sherlock.  He resolved to call Molly Hooper in the morning.  She could feign having a body for him, that’d put him in the basement where a sniper couldn’t reach.

 

“You’re thinking too loud,” Sherlock said into his hair.  “Stop it.”

 

“Right.  Sorry.”

 

* * *

 

Mycroft didn’t want to admit it, but he was excited.  Mere minutes after Lestrade left and his bodyguard came in, he was already on an armchair, whiskey in hand, thinking hard on what exactly he’d just done.

 

He spent a day with a man his own age, discussing nothing to do with the diplomacy of anything but baking in a partnership.  He’d had _fun_.  He’d enjoyed himself with another person.  It wasn’t such an unbelievable thing, that he could have fun.  It was just that another person could provide him with it.  Everyone else seemed so massively dull.

 

Lestrade wasn’t dull.  Greg—wasn’t dull at all.  He wasn’t the brightest, of course, but he was a clever man by regular standards, and more than that, he was a loyal man.  He could be counted upon to stand on the side of the right no matter what it cost him, and Mycroft admired that greatly.

 

He made the necessary calls to push off all his work for a week, due to a ‘family emergency,’ and brainstormed what exactly he could do tomorrow with Greg.

 

Of course, it was all ridiculous and immensely undignified, and in a few weeks he wouldn’t be spending any more time with Greg.  In a few months or possibly years, Greg would marry Molly and there would be no time or need for companionship with Mycroft Holmes.  This was a business arrangement.  Protection.

 

 

 

He idly did a bit of background research on Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade’s favorite alcohol and football and rugby teams.  Perhaps tomorrow they’d watch a game.  He didn’t really like any sports, but he liked…not thinking about things.

He was beginning to understand why Sherlock had sought after distractions of all shapes in sizes through his life.  There was an unfortunate lack of John Watsons in the world.

 

 

 

After finishing his research, he took a few hours of sleep and was only woken up by the sound of his phone ringing shrilly early in the morning.  He saw the caller and rolled his eyes before picking up.  “It is an ungodly hour, Dr. Watson.”

 

“I need your help.  It’s serious.”

 

“I’m listening.”

 

“I’ve been texted—I’ve been getting texts from the same number as Miss Adler since this started.  One saying I’d trusted the wrong person, one saying I’d made a mistake, and one saying to meet at Millenium Mills at noon to ‘save the Holmes brothers’.”

 

“You should have told me.  Immediately. _This_ would have been good to know.”

 

John groaned over the phone.  “They never arrived at a good time.  Sherlock doesn’t know about this last one.  I left before he woke up—he won’t wake for ages—and I left some excuse on a note.”

 

“You’re going?  Are you quite sure you don’t have a death wish?”

 

“What choice do I have?  If we go in guns blazing, you both are in more danger.  The texter would have killed me or you two if our deaths were their goal.  I think they want to strike a deal.  I’ve got my gun, I’ve got my phone.  If you don’t get a text from me within the hour, something’s gone wrong and I need help.”

 

“Anything else?”

 

“Stay with Greg today.  I called Molly and asked her to babysit Sherlock while I’m out.  It’ll only be a few hours.”

 

“John—”

 

“We need answers.  Mycroft.”

 

“Fifteen minutes.  If I don’t get a text _fifteen_ _minutes_ after noon, I send my nearest man.  Answers or no.”

 

“Fair.  See you soon.”

 

John hung up, and Mycroft found that he was clutching his phone.  Only half six in the morning and he was already terrified for everyone’s lives.

 

Somewhere, far off in some corner of the house, the doorbell rang.  Lestrade was here, and Mycroft was drooling on his pillow in a wrinkled suit he was wearing yesterday.  He walked outside his room with a weary sigh, nodding to his bodyguard in front of his door to dismiss him, and walked down to the front door where his butler was ushering Greg in.

 

“You look awful,” he said.  “Did someone start a war?”

 

“No—family trouble as usual. Watson trouble, more specifically.  Complicated and messy.”  Mycroft looked down at his suit.  “Thank you for coming.  Yet again.  I’ve the day free.  There’s a match on later…”

 

“Sounds…nice.  You all right?”

 

Mycroft sighed.  “Tired.  I could do with a few more hours of sleep, and I imagine you could, too.  There are plenty of unused guest bedrooms.”

 

“I’m supposed to stay with you, though,” Greg said.  “Y’know, safety purposes.  If you need a kip, I could just read a book or something nearby. Whatever you like.”

 

Mycroft smiled.  “Thank you.”

 

* * *

 

The Millennium Mills, John had heard of before, of course.  He’d seen the pictures in primary school and again in uni at many art exhibits on urban decay that his friends forced him to go to.  Upon doing a bit more research on his phone on his way to West Silvertown, he found that the Mills had been built in the 20th century and were completely closed down now, as they had been for years.

 

It stood defiant on the south side of the Royal Victoria Dock, falling apart but untouchable.

 

There was tons of security in the area, and rightly so—kids were always trying to sneak inside and always hurt themselves as a result.  The building was unstable and full of mold and rot.

 

John spent the earlier hours of the morning traveling to the Mills via cab and the rest of them trying to find away inside the slowly decaying building without arousing suspicion.  Police cars dotted the premises, always watching for people who wanted to have a go at surviving inside the Mills.

 

On the western corner, there seemed to be less police coverage.  John walked around the building, taking pictures on his phone to feign tourism, and when he saw the nearest police car drive to the other side, he ducked under one of the building’s awnings and searched for a window he could break and climb through with his bum leg.

 

 _This is going to be painful_ , John thought to himself with growing apprehension.  He had only moments before the police car would be back and all the doors were locked or rusted shut, so with a grunt, he leaned against the building and used his cane to smash a window.  He threw the cane over the side and hoisted himself into the building, falling with a moan onto the dirty ground inside.

 

Rotted bits and trash clung to the floor.  The entire room inside smelled of urine and was decorated with extensive graffiti.  Parts of the ceiling were missing and the carpet was gone in bits and pieces.  John wrinkled his noise at the mess of it all and brushed his hands off.  He reached for his cane and propped himself up.

 

The floor was unstable—that he knew.  He’d have to be careful wherever he went, lest the floor break beneath him.  He took small steps, using his cane to test the strength of the floor, and shuffled from the first room to the next.

 

Each room was indistinct.  Rust carved itself off the walls and ceilings and everything was covered in mold and rot.  John had to keep himself from choking.

 

His phone beeped in his pocket.

 

**NO MORE HIDE AND SEEK.  SECOND FLOOR.**

Wheezing in the dusty air, John typed back an irritated response.

 

**Where on the second floor?**

The sender didn’t respond.  John sighed and looked for the nearest set of stairs.  This was going to be even more difficult.  In the next room, he found what looked like the main staircase, dilapidated and in pieces.  He swore quietly and began the climb.  He had no idea who could have made it up to the second floor without falling through it.  It had to be some sort of ghost.

 

 _Stop worrying_ , he thought to himself.  _Just stop.  You’re here to save Sherlock—remember that.  Sherlock’s in danger and you’re going to keep him safe.  Save the Holmes brothers.  That’s your job._

He focused so much on this that he didn’t notice when the steps gave out beneath him and his bum leg plunged through a hole in the stairs.

 

John screamed hoarsely and scrabbled for purchase on the filthy steps above him to keep from falling and breaking his neck.  With a few curse words, he dislodged his leg from the moldy hole and righted himself until he got to the top of the stairs and opened the door.

 

The second floor was one enormous room full of long-dead mill machinery.  And one metal chair with a man in it.

 

“No,” John gasped, falling to his knees.  “No— _no_ , that’s not—not possible.”

 

“Sorry, dear.  ‘Fraid not.”

 

Lifting his head and staring at John with a sly grin, James Moriarty waved at him and said, “Was it the Westwood that gave me away?”

 


	12. Chapter 12

“You were dead.  You _are_ dead!” John insisted.  He brought himself to his feet and started limping angrily toward the man in the chair, but Moriarty lifted a slim finger and tut-tutted him.

 

“Shaky ground you’re on, Johnny-boy.  Wouldn’t want to slip and die.  Hardly need snipers here, do I?” He laughed coldly.  “Not that I don’t have them, mind.”

 

“I don’t understand.  Your body was blown up.  All they found of you was your legs.  Your DNA.  You definitely died that night.”

 

“Look a bit closer, dear.”

 

John squinted, mind racing and reeling, and tried to take in Moriarty.  He’d recognized him immediately, from the dead-eyed stare to the suit, but now that he looked closer, he could see some subtle differences.  His skin was stretched and patched oddly in places, giving him an odd, almost-scarecrow like appearance.  At least one of his eyes didn’t moved properly, the way it was meant to, and he could see the too-perfect hairline.

 

A nearly perfect doll of Moriarty.

 

“Bit rough, the surgery,” he said with an irritable wave of his hand.  “Even the best plastic surgeons can’t make it look the same, but I wasn’t really keen on getting my old face back.  I only did it because I wanted this.”  He giggled and gestured to John.  “I just…I love your little reactions, Johnny.  They’re _such_ fun.”

 

“How did it happen?  How did you survive that night?” John asked.  “Moreover, what exactly are you up to?  Why have you been texting me?”

 

“All in good time,” Moriarty hummed.  “I want to catch up, Johnny, but on my own terms.  I’d much rather here about _you_.  You and your dear little friend.  How was your shag last night?  I always enjoyed how tight Sherlock was… He made a lot of delicious noises, too.”

 

John felt his anger rise to a boil.  “You are never touching him again.”

 

“Quite right.  I don’t like used goods.  Oh, and you mustn’t think he liked it—don’t be jealous, Johnny.  He _hated_ it.  I could almost see him cry, sometimes.  I’m not a particularly nice lover.”  He smiled.  “Would you like me to tell you all the things we did?  Sherlock nearly didn’t survive a few of them.”

 

“ _Stop_ ,” John growled.  He wanted to reach into his pocket and pull out his gun, knowing once he killed Moriarty a sniper would kill him, too, but he didn’t care.  He wanted to ensure that Moriarty _died_ this time, so Sherlock would never be in danger like that again.

 

“Oh-ho-ho, calm down, now!  Don’t you want to know what this is all about?  Can’t you guess yet?” Moriarty asked.

 

“You orchestrated everything.  The texts.”

 

“It was maddeningly simple,” Moriarty scoffed.  “I didn’t have to plant any deaths or fake trails.  There isn’t a case—there never was.  I just planted one little seed of doubt in everyone’s minds that Mycroft wasn’t safe, and little Sherly came rushing back to save his big brother.  Terribly touching.”

 

“This isn’t like you.  You like things to be clever.  You like big crimes and clues.”

 

“What’s cleverer than faking your own death?” he asked.  “Did you ever for one second think I was the one luring you back to England?”

 

John grunted, his only admittance that Moriarty was right.  “Irene Adler.  You used her.”

 

“Oh, yes.  Sent her the pretty little picture that sent her scampering into Sherlock’s arms for help.  She always had a thing for him, poor girl.”

 

“She wasn’t working for you?” John asked.  “I don’t understand.  I thought she was your agent.  I thought she knew she was bringing us to you.”

 

Moriarty smiled, and John shuddered at all the times he’d seen that horrible smile.  He wished desperately that this was all a dream, and that he’d never have to witness that dead grin again.  “Nope.  A pawn.  The Woman brought you to me unknowingly but now her usefulness has run its course.  She’ll have to go.”

 

“You’re lying.  You said we’d put our trust in the wrong person.  In Irene.”

 

Moriarty frowned.  “Hmm?  N-no, she’s been safe all along.  She didn’t have any ulterior motive.”

 

“No.”

 

“Don’t believe me?  Irene, darling, come on out, won’t you?”

 

From the shadows of the room, Irene Adler stepped forward and John reached for his gun until she came into the light, and he could see her fully.  Her face was beaten and bloodied and bruised, and her hands were tied behind her.  She looked brave, unshaken in the face of James Moriarty, and spoke to John.  “I didn’t know, John.  I’m sorry.”

 

“Irene?” he asked.  “What did he do to you?  What happened???”

 

“She figured it out before she was meant to,” Moriarty said apologetically.  “Couldn’t let her go blabbing.  I do apologize, Miss Adler.”  He beckoned outside his window to some unseen sniper, and a red dot appeared on Irene’s forehead.  “Can’t shoot anymore—not that I ever liked to.  But that champagne bottle took my hand with it, anyway, so the opportunity is gone.”

 

John glanced at Moriarty’s right hand, which indeed looked to be made of wax or plastic or some un-skin-like material, and before he could respond, a sharp sound tore through the air as a bullet sunk neatly into Irene’s forehead.  She fell nearly to the floor and John moved to help her before a red dot appeared on him, too.

 

“Can’t save her, Dr. Watson.  Now is the time to listen, because I won’t say it again.”  Moriarty folded his real hand onto his fake one and sighed.  “Sherlock and Mycroft Holmes have done me a terrible disservice.  They’re going to be destroyed for what they’ve done.”

 

“I can’t let you do that.”

 

“I know.  Why do you think I’ve been texting you, dear?” Moriarty chuckled.  “I’m going to kill them.  One way or another.  But you are the one in the position to stop me.”

 

“What do you mean?”

 

“Simple, really.  You have to die.”

 

The air hung between them in dusty clumps, neither man ready to say anything more.  John didn’t flinch, didn’t change his expression.  Finally, Moriarty rolled his eyes, one dead, one real, and said, “Not right now, _obviously_.  Preferably in front of Sherlock.  If poor, dear old Sherly sees _you_ die, my dear, at my hand, when it was _his responsibility_ to keep you safe, he’ll fall to pieces.  He’ll be irreparably broken.  And Mycroft, dear old Myc, won’t be able to cope with a broken brother.  Sherlock will turn junkie again and maybe even off himself, and Mycroft will break too.”

 

“You want me to die in front of them.”

 

“That’s the deal.  Either that or I make a big show of killing them.  But I really like this way better.  It’s sexier,” he explained.  “If you die, I won’t touch them.  They can live out the rest of their miserable lives hating themselves.  But you have to die.”

 

“You still haven’t told me how you survived.”

 

“All will be explained when it needs to be.  I imagine you’ll want to be hurrying off to Sherlock now and crying into his shoulder about how wrong you both were,” Moriarty laughed mirthlessly.  “That’s fine.  I want to see how the Holmes brothers try and take me down, with your help.  It sure didn’t work the last time.”

 

“If Irene wasn’t the one betraying us, then who was?” John growled.  “ _Tell me!_ ”

 

“Not until you make the choice, dear.  Here’s what I imagine will go down tonight—you’ll rush to Sherlock and try and figure out how your poor, doomed love can survive.  Maybe even have a desperate shag.  Whatever you decide to do, you’ll know that unless you give yourself up to me, I will always be one step ahead of you, ready to off your boyfriend and his brother.”

 

Moriarty chuckled and plucked out an eyeball from his own head—a glass eye, as John had suspected—and inspected it.  “An eye for an eye.  A murder for a murder.  But I won’t try and blow you up with champagne, Johnny.  A nice bullet through the eyes.  You won’t feel a thing.  The last thing you’ll see is Sherlock’s horrified face and then…darkness.  Sherlock’s favorite thing.”

 

John felt like he was going to be sick.  Without another word, he spun around and limped down and out of the broken building, hearing Moriarty’s frenzied laughter following him until he landed outside and fell to the ground, wheezing in the grass.

 

He couldn’t just let himself be killed.  He had no guarantee that Moriarty would ever leave Sherlock alone.  He couldn’t hurt Sherlock again, not like that.  Not after everything they’d been through.

 

His fingers tightened in the grass.  He _refused_ to play Moriarty’s game.  He pulled out his phone and called Mycroft, whom he hadn’t bothered to text.

 

“John!  You were supposed to contact me!” Mycroft hissed over the phone.  “I’ve already sent a team over—”

 

“I need to come over.  I can’t go back to Sherlock…not yet.  Is he safe?”

 

“Molly Hooper has him at Bart’s.  Got a text from her a half hour ago.  They’re fine.”

 

John groaned.  Molly could be an accomplice.  Greg could be an accomplice.  At this point, even _Mycroft_ could know…

 

He’d take his chances with Mycroft.  “Where’s Greg?”

 

“Watching the match.”

 

“I need to speak with you.  Is there a car you’ve sent that I can take?”

 

“Around the corner.”

 

“Get in your car—don’t tell Greg where you’re going.  Meet me at Speedy’s as soon as you can.  Alone.”

 

“What’s going on?  Did you find out who’s behind all this?”

 

“Yes,” John groaned, spotting one of Mycroft’s sleek, black cars.  “We’ll talk.  Speedy’s.  _Alone_.”  He hung up on Mycroft and dialed Molly, just to be safe.

 

She picked up on the third ring.  “Hullo, John!  How’re things?”

 

“Where’s Sherlock?”

 

“Erm, down in the lab.  Corpse with polio—he’s having a field day.”

 

“Give him the phone.”  If Molly really was the traitor, he reasoned, Sherlock wouldn’t really be with her, or he’d be gagged or threatened or dead or worse.

 

“Okay, er, one second—are you all right, John?  You didn’t tell me this morning why you needed me—”

 

“Just put him on.”

 

He heard her shuffle down some steps, open a door, and shout indistinctly.  The phone was handed over and Sherlock’s voice filled John’s ear.

 

“You _idiot_.  Giving me some unintelligent excuse for running out this morning and leaving Molly to babysit me.  What the devil were you thinking?”

 

John only smiled in relief—Sherlock was safe.  “I can’t really tell you.”

 

“Come back to me.  Now.”

 

“I…can’t yet, Sherlock.  I…Something’s happened.  Something I can’t tell you yet.”

 

“What are you talking about?”

 

“I’ll tell you—I swear, I _will_ tell you when I see you,” John promised.  “It’s just—he already thinks I’m going to run to you.  We need to be apart for a few hours.  It’ll throw him off.”

 

“Throw _whom_ off?  John, I don’t understand—”

 

“Stay with Molly.  Stay out of sight.  I _promise_ , Sherlock, I will see you soon.  I just need to come up with a plan.”

 

“What’s going on?”

 

“I can’t tell you yet.  It’s for your protection.  Please, Sherlock, for me.  Stay with Molly.”

 

There was silence on the other end.  “It’s bad?”

 

“The worst.”

 

“You will come back.”

 

“I’m in no immediate danger.  You might be.  Please, if you love me, then trust me on this.  Stay away.”

 

“Tonight.  I’ve got to see you tonight.”

 

“I can’t promise that.”

 

“If you love _me_ ,” Sherlock pleaded, “you won’t scare me like this.  Not for an entire day, when my mind will be racing with guesses about what’s happened to you.”

 

John sighed.  “I met the person who’s lured us here.  And I know what they want.”

 

“Who is it?  What’s the plan?”

 

“We were wrong, Sherlock.  We were so, so wrong—I already didn’t think we were safe.  But we’ve never been in this much trouble before.”  John covered his face with his free hand and hobbled into Mycroft’s car.  “I can’t say more.  He’s listening.  Take care of yourself.”

 

“I love you.”

 

“I love you, too.  Put Molly back on.”

 

The phone rustled on the other end, and then—“John?”

 

“Molly?”

 

“John, what’s going on?” she asked fearfully.  “Are you hurt?”

 

“No, I’m just—thrown for a loop.  I think we might all have to get out of here.”

 

“Get out of _where_?”

 

“The country.  The planet.  Whatever’s easier.  Listen, Molly…has Greg been acting strange to you, lately?  Since Sherlock left the country?”

 

Molly mumbled on the other end.  “Er…not really, not that I can think of.  I didn’t know him all that well to begin with.  Sorry.  I know that’s a rubbish answer.”

 

“It’s fine.  Listen, keep Sherlock safe, whatever you do.”

 

“I will.”

 

“I’m serious, Moll.  I don’t…” John hesitated.  “I don’t know whom I can trust right now, but I’m charging you to do this right.  Do it because we’re friends and you were there for me in the hospital before and you’re here for us now, just like we’d be there for you.”

 

“I promise he’ll be safe, John.  You’ll see him soon,” she swore over the phone.  “Please, please, be careful, all right?  Sherlock would go _mad_ if anything happened to you.”

 

“I know.  See you soon.”


	13. Chapter 13

John sighed in relief when he saw Mycroft through the window at Speedy’s.  He’d forgotten how long it had been since he’d seen 221 Baker Street—it looked sad, if a building could _look_ sad.  Or maybe it was just John that felt sad that his home, his memories, and every wonderful month he’d spent getting to know the man he loved were all up a flight of stairs.  He couldn’t imagine that he’d be coming back to 221b anytime soon.

 

He ignored the forlorn black door and its knocker and walked into Speedy’s, where Mycroft smiled at him and gestured to the tea he’d already ordered for him.  “You look shaken,” he said.  “Should I prepare myself?”

 

John didn’t answer.  “Greg’s not here?”

 

“No, I slipped out.  I imagine he’ll have a nervous conniption when he realizes I’m gone,” he said.

 

“Mycroft,” John began, and he sighed and stopped.  There was no easy way to explain what he’d seen.  “Mycroft,” he tried again, “we really made a mistake.”

 

“You’ve been saying that.”

 

“No, I mean, from the very beginning.  Months ago.”  John took a huge gulp of his tea, which burned his throat on the way down.  “That day—at the palace.  With the tea, and the champagne, and the fire…how sure were you that Moriarty was dead?”

 

Mycroft raised his eyebrows, digesting, and then his face crumpled.  “That simply isn’t possible.  The force of the blast should have torn him apart.  It _did_ tear him apart.”

 

“It didn’t.  I _saw_ him, Mycroft.  It was definitely Moriarty.  He’d been burned badly, he suffered a lot of injuries—he lost a hand, and an eye, and probably his hair, because it looked like he had a wig—but it was him.  He survived that day.”

 

“ _How_?”

 

“I don’t know.  He refused to tell me.  But he’s alive, and he wants to kill you and Sherlock for nearly killing him.”

 

“We won’t let that happen,” Mycroft said.  “Now why has he been texting only you?  Did he make you an offer?”

 

“Yes.  He’ll leave you alone if I let him kill me in front of Sherlock.”

 

Mycroft shook his head.  “You’re not going to do it.  I won’t allow it.  Sherlock wouldn’t survive that.”

 

“I know—that’s the idea,” John said.  “I won’t go to him, Mycroft.  But I don’t know what to do.  He’ll follow us wherever we go, trying to kill you.  Someone has to do something to stop him…but I don’t think we can do anything.  I don’t know what we _can_ do…” He looked up hopefully at Mycroft.  “Do you have any ideas?”

 

“Does Sherlock know?”

 

“Nothing yet.  I can’t keep it from him forever.  Molly’s got him at Bart’s.”

 

“I think,” Mycroft said, “the best solution would be…to run.”

 

“Moriarty won’t stop looking.”

 

“We either run or we all die,” he said matter-of-factly, “and I will not accept your death, nor Sherlock’s.  I cannot leave my place in England, so I will have to increase my security and hope that I can find a way to bring Moriarty down.”

 

“How is that possible?  You tried once before and failed, and no amount of security will stop him.”

 

“There is no choice!” Mycroft said angrily.  “We’ll have to lay false trails to keep him off you and Sherlock.  You’ll have to be separated at the beginning—”

 

“ _NO_ ,” John growled.  “I’m not leaving him for anything.  You _know_ I won’t leave him.”

 

“You’ll have to.  If you want him to live, you’ll have to.  I’ll send him to America, and you can go…somewhere in Africa.  You’re used to desert heat.”

 

“Please, Mycroft…” he begged.  “There has to be something you can do to keep us in the same place.”

 

“I can’t put you in any more danger than I already have,” he said sadly.  “This is my fault.  I should have had him killed when he wasn’t so powerful—I never should have asked Sherlock to join him.  I was reaching too far.”

 

“No, you shouldn’t have,” John agreed.  “Is this the only way?  To be separate?”

 

“It’s the safest.  It won’t last forever.  I’ll make sure you are reunited relatively soon.”

 

“When do we leave?”

 

“Now.  I’ll need a few minutes to buy a few plane tickets, send some operatives in different directions,” Mycroft said.  He pulled out his phone and started to tap away.

 

John clutched at the table and asked, “Do I even get to say goodbye?”

 

“You can call him, I suppose,” he said.  “That’s all, I’m afraid.  I’ll be just a moment.”  He got up from the table and made his way to the restroom.

 

John stared at the empty chair in front of him, feeling dizzy.  Numbly he got out his phone and dialed Sherlock’s number.

 

“John?  Where are you?”

 

“Speedy’s.”

 

“Don’t move—I’m coming.”

 

“Don’t—seriously, don’t, Sherlock,” John said.  “I’m sorry, I—Mycroft said I could only call.”

 

“What do you mean?  What are you talking about?”

 

“We have to get out of the country,” he explained.

 

“What—”

 

“It’s Moriarty.”

 

There was silence on the other line.  “Impossible.”

 

“I saw him.  He’s alive and he wants you dead.  There’s no case.  Irene was tricked, and she’s dead now.  He killed her right in front of me.”

 

“John—”

 

“He just wanted you back in England.  He’s going to kill you, so the only choice we have is to run.”

 

“Unless we kill him first,” Sherlock reasoned.

 

“We’d never get close enough.”

 

Sherlock sighed into the phone.  “Where does Mycroft want us to go?”

 

“I can’t tell you over the phone.  He’s listening, I’m sure.  It’s just…we won’t be going together.”

 

“No,” Sherlock growled, and John felt his heart leap up for a moment to know he felt the same way.  “Not happening.  I’m coming with you.”

 

“It’s for our safety.  We’ll see each other again soon, I promise.  Mycroft will arrange it.”

 

“I’ll go looking for you.”

 

“ _Don’t_ , seriously, you can’t.  Sherlock…this is the hardest thing, this is…I don’t know how to say it…” John stopped and clutched at his throat, swallowing back the hardness there so he wouldn’t cry.  He was not going to cry.  “The only chance we have is separation.  Just for a little while, love, and we’ll…we’ll be together again, soon, I swear.  If Mycroft doesn’t arrange it, I’ll come looking for you myself.  But I don’t want to jeopardize your safety by coming with you.”

 

“John, you can’t just leave me,” Sherlock said.  “You can’t.  You said you wouldn’t.”

 

“I said I’d keep you safe.  This is me keeping that promise,” he insisted.  “I don’t know when I’ll talk to you again.  I don’t know if I’ll be able to call.  I don’t even know if Moriarty won’t intercept me when I leave, but just in case—”

 

“Don’t say it.  Don’t give him the satisfaction of saying goodbye,” Sherlock said.  “We’ll see each other soon.”

 

“Yeah…”

 

“ _John_.  I will see you soon.”

 

Tears were thick in his throat.  He wanted to be able to say it, just in case Sherlock was wrong, but he didn’t.  So he just hung up.

 

* * *

 

Mycroft locked himself in the bathroom and made the necessary calls to his agents, procuring tickets for John, Sherlock, and ten operatives.  It would take Moriarty some time to figure out who was going where, which would buy his brother and John some time.

 

When the plane and train tickets were bought, he hesitated before dialing Greg.

 

“Mycroft!  You _bloody dickhead_!  I was worried sick—I got the beers out and you were gone!  I had to search the whole house for you, and that took ages, and I didn’t know where to even look for you!”

 

“Greg, calm down.  There’s been a development.”

 

“I’ll say!  Oh, I could _bloody kill_ you,” Greg shouted into the phone.  “I was…I thought they’d kidnapped you, or something!  I was terrified.”

 

Mycroft smiled wryly.  “I’m fine.  I wouldn’t have left without telling you; it was an emergency.”

 

“Next time, tell me, will you?”

 

“No promises.  No one’s holding you accountable for my disappearance, anyway.”

 

“ _I’d_ hold myself accountable if anything bad happened to you.  Mycroft, you’re…you’re important.  It would tear the country apart if you died.”

 

Mycroft paused.  “Well.  There’s a significant chance that’s going to happen, now.  I’m going to have to ask you to leave my service.”

 

“What??”

 

“It’s no longer safe for you to guard me,” Mycroft explained.  “A…new enemy has been introduced, and though I hate to admit it, we have been soundly beaten.  I’m expecting that I’ll be killed within the week.  We’re all in grave danger.”

 

“What are you talking about?”

 

“I’m afraid that you’ll have to take Molly with you and go somewhere else, somewhere safe, until the threat has been eliminated.  You’ll be incriminated with us and our enemy will be after you.”

 

“Whoa, slow down,” Greg said.  “I’m not going anywhere.”

 

“I insist that you do.”

 

“No—you just said that you think you’re going to be killed and there’s nothing anyone can do.  But I’m going to do something—I’m going to protect you!  That’s all I’m good for, anyway.  Brute force.”

 

“Don’t say that,” Mycroft said.  “Greg, that couldn’t be further from the truth.  And I must admit…if it’s my last chance to be frank with you… Well, I wanted to tell you that I appreciated yesterday.  I appreciate your willingness to protect me.”

 

“It wasn’t anything.”

 

“It was.  It was…fun.  Normal.”

 

“It doesn’t have to be over.  It doesn’t have to change.”

 

“It does, I’m afraid.”  Mycroft spoke quietly now.  “Remember when you asked me if I had anyone normal in my life, someone like John?”

 

“Yeah?”

 

Mycroft hesitated.  “I…you could have been someone like that.  In time.”

 

“Sorry?”

 

“There’ll be a car out front for you.  Molly will join you shortly.  My associates are working on a safe house in witness protection for you in India.  Just consider it an early honeymoon.”

 

“Mycroft—”

 

And then Mycroft hung up.


	14. Chapter 14

For some reason, John kept seeing himself wherever he went.  It took him a few minutes to realize that Mycroft was behind it all, and even then he had to call and confirm.

 

He’d seen at least four people dressed exactly like him, looking _exactly_ like him—all middle-aged men with silvery blond hair and black leather jackets, checking their tickets and luggage and wandering around Heathrow Airport while they waited for their planes to board.  Mycroft assured him that he had agents in every airport in London.  Moriarty might have had operatives in every corner of London, but none of them could be sure whom to follow with so many John Watsons walking around.

 

The real John Watson kept his head down at an airport bar, staring at the ticket in his hands.  A stopover in Morocco, and then a long flight to Cape Town.  Three months away from Sherlock at least.

 

No texting.

 

No calling.

 

No emails.

 

No contacting Mycroft.

 

He’d have no idea at all if Sherlock and Mycroft were alive or dead.

 

John leaned back in his chair, wishing that for once he’d gone against Mycroft’s orders and looked for Sherlock to say goodbye.  All he had to do was say goodbye, and then he’d be at peace with it.  He couldn’t stand not knowing.  He could stand the picture in his head of the last time he’d seen Sherlock in the flesh and not on pictures on his mobile.

 

He’d been sleeping lazily, curled up against John’s chest, hair tousled from sex.  Despite their exhaustion, John had managed to wake him for one more go, just to make sure Sherlock slept when he left.

 

If he’d known that would be all he got… If he’d known that he only go to spend three nights with Sherlock and then possibly never see him again.

 

John dialed Sherlock’s number and hung up quickly.  He couldn’t risk it.

 

It was nearly time to go.  He grabbed his lone rucksack and made for the terminal.

 

* * *

 

“You can’t be doing this to us.  There has to be something else we can do,” Sherlock insisted over the phone.  He’d been calling and getting no answer for ages—Mycroft had refused to pick up until he was sure John made it to Heathrow. 

 

He crossed his legs and told his driver to pick up the pace before responding to Sherlock.  “Moriarty isn’t dead, little brother.  He’s got us exactly where he wants us and he won’t rest until he’s killed us both.  The only thing to do is run.”

 

“But we can outwit him.  We nearly did it once.  We’re the bloody fucking Holmes brothers!” Sherlock said shrilly.  “We have to _fight back_.”

 

“The time it would take to mount an attack against him is the time it would take for him to send a sniper over and off us both.  I’ve sent a car for you.  It’ll be there shortly.”

 

“Where am I going?”

 

“John thinks you’re going to America.”

 

“…I’m not?”

 

“No.  Couldn’t risk him going after you.  You’re going somewhere a bit more remote.”

 

Sherlock groaned.  “Mycroft, _please_.  He only just took me back…we didn’t have any time together.”

 

“I’m sorry.  Truly I am.  But your safety outweighs your happiness in this scenario.”

 

“And what about yours?  You’re not running away.”

 

“I’m depending on my own personal defense team to keep him away.”

 

“You know that won’t work.  He’ll kill you within the day.”

 

“Unless he’s planning a more dramatic demise for me, yes,” Mycroft said.  “Make sure you get in that car, Sherlock.  I won’t ask you again.”

 

“Mycroft—the reason I came back was to make sure you weren’t harmed.”

 

“I’m flattered that you thought you could make that happen for me.”

 

“Are you going to die?” Sherlock asked.

 

“Yes.”

 

“Most certainly?”

 

“I see no way around it.  I have to go home and prepare… Anthea’ll need the paperwork.  She’s ready to succeed me when the time comes.”  He paused, thinking hard on what he wanted to say.  “I told John I would tell him where you were when you both were safe.  I clearly won’t be in a position to do so.  Anthea will be tracking you both—she’ll release his contact information to you when the time is right.”

 

“Mycroft—we can’t be this helpless.  This isn’t what we are.”

 

“That was before sentiment got the better of us.  Take care of yourself, brother mine.”

 

“Mycroft!”

 

“Don’t call this number again.”  Mycroft hung up and turned his phone off.  His driver pulled in past the gates of his home and onto the gravel way up to the front door.  Quickly he exited the car and all but slammed the front doors of his house shut behind him.

 

“There you are!”

 

Mycroft tensed at the voice, wanting to run, and felt behind him for the doorknob.  Greg Lestrade descended from the steps into the foyer, a breathless smile on his face, and Mycroft’s spine sagged when he saw him.  He fell to the floor, momentarily undone by panic, and Greg kneeled next to him.

 

“What the fuck is going on?” Greg asked him.  “Come on, then, tell me.  You look like death.”

 

Mycroft chuckled weakly and raked a shaky hand through his hair.  “You were supposed to be gone by now.”

 

Greg shook his head.  “I told you I wasn’t going anywhere.  Weren’t you listening?”

 

“You were meant to leave the country with Molly.”

 

“I called Moll—she understands.  I promised I’d stay with you and protect you.  You look like you need it.”

 

Mycroft looked up at Greg, flabbergasted.  “You could be killed if you stay here.  I don’t understand.”

 

“I just…I didn’t want you to be alone.  If I can help you out somehow, I will,” he said.  He held a hand out to Mycroft to help him up, and Mycroft took it for a second before collapsing into Greg’s chest. 

 

Greg nearly fell over with shock and the sudden weight on him, but he carefully wrapped an arm around Mycroft’s shaking shoulders when he realized that Mycroft might have actually been crying.

 

“Hey, it’s all right, okay?  It’ll be all right.  It can’t be that bad, Mycroft, it can’t…”

 

“ _Moriarty_ ,” he whispered.  Realizing where he was, he propelled himself back from Greg’s chest and brought himself to a standing position.  “Moriarty’s alive.  He survived somehow and he’s back, and he wants all of us dead.”

 

“ _What_?”

 

“I know,” he said.  “I don’t understand how, but he’s alive.  John met him today and told me everything he’d found out, so I’ve sent him and Sherlock out of the country.”

 

“Won’t he just follow them?”

 

“Probably.  They’ll have to keep running.  But me—I can’t run from my post,” Mycroft explained.  “I have to stay.  Which means Moriarty will have me killed, and soon.”

 

Greg frowned.  “No.  No, I’m not going to let that happen.”

 

“You should leave while you still can.  Molly…”

 

“Mycroft.  I’m not going to leave you.  Not when you’re falling apart like this.”  Greg crossed his arms and stared at Mycroft, challenging him to argue.  Mycroft had nothing to say in his defense, however, so he merely threw his hands up in a gesture of defeat.  “Come on—there’s got to be a way we can solve this, together.  What exactly did John tell you?”

 

Mycroft quickly sifted through his memories of the last hour.  “My library.  _Now_.”

 

* * *

 

“The flight will be boarding soon,” the too-friendly flight attendant told the crowd huddled at the terminal.  “The pilot is doing a few last-minute checks.  We apologize for any inconvenience.”

 

John grumbled quietly in his seat with the other passengers.  He clutched at his ticket, rereading the jumbled numbers and letters on it until they blurred, and slumped a little in his seat.

 

“Typical, right?” an ornery passenger asked him with a nudge to his right arm.  “They’re always behind at Heathrow.”

 

“Mmm,” John offered noncommittally.  He never enjoyed indulging in small talk.

 

“What’re you up to Morocco, then?”

 

“Business trip.”

 

“Oh, business, is it?” he said, and John looked at him for the first time.  He was a big man with one gold tooth that John could glimpse when he opened his mouth wide.  “I’m going for pleasure.”

 

John shifted uncomfortably in his seat.  “Yeah?”

 

“Yeah.  See, I _love_ hunting,” the man said, and he placed his hand on a subtle bump underneath his jacket.  John saw his hand stray there and realized what was underneath the jacket.

 

It had the rough shape and size of a Sig Sauer.  John gulped and reached clumsily out for his cane and stood up.

 

“Sir?” the flight attendant called.  “Sir, we’ll be boarding soon!”

 

“Yeah, where’re you going, Dr. Watson?” the man said.  “Fancy a hunting trip?”

 

John ignored them all and began a swift walk away from the terminal when all of a sudden, the lights of the airport went out.

 

People screamed and shouted in surprised, and John could faintly here the flight attendants and security guards beg everyone to stay calm.  There was enough light from the windows to see, so he continued walking as fast as he could, feeling pain shoot up his leg as he clomped hard onto it.

 

His hand itched for his mobile.  Quickly searching for an exit, he grabbed it out of his pocket and dialed for Mycroft.

 

“Mycroft—he’s here.  He’s found me.  I’m being followed.  For goodness’ sake, send _help_ ,” he begged before Mycroft even picked up.  “Mycroft— _Mycroft, please_ —”

 

“Dr. Watson?” a voice said behind him over the clamor, and John didn’t have to turn to see who it was.  It was the man he’d been talking to at the terminal.  “I wouldn’t try to run anymore, if I were you.”

 

John paused where he was, only a few steps from the stairwell down to the ground floor.  He knew it wasn’t Moran—Moran had been shot months ago, at the tea party.  This was someone new, some new lackey sent to kill him.

 

“Come now, Doctor.  You knew yourself that you couldn’t run.  I mean, just _look_ at your leg.”

 

John turned on his heel to face the man, who smiled with his gun in hand.  HE took a deep breath and said, “You’re right.”  Then, with a series of calculated moves only a soldier or a Holmes could have thought of, John braced himself on his good leg for one second and lifted his cane in the air.  With a quick slap of his cane he knocked the gun out of the man’s head, and then he shoved the end of the cane up against his windpipe. 

 

The man gasped and gagged, clutching at his throat, and John pulled his cane back to his side before he toppled over and began an uneven run down the stairs.  His leg screamed at him with searing pain but he ignored it and all but threw himself down the crowded steps full of panicked people.  He could hear the wheezy roar of his attacker as he blustered behind him, but John was nearly to the ground floor, nearly home free.

 

He tripped on the last step and went sprawling out onto the floor below, grunting in pain.  Before his attacker could overtake him, he reached out for his cane—

 

And someone in shiny leather shoes stomped on it and kept him from grabbing it back.  With a sense of dread, John looked up and saw the disapproving, patchwork face of James Moriarty, who was shaking his head sadly.

 

“You win,” John said.  “I’ll let you kill me.  But don’t hurt Sherlock.”

 

“You had your chance to say that before.  That offer’s expired.”  He nodded to his man on the stairs, who finally caught up to John and pulled him up by his coat.  “Good night, Johnny.”

 

Before John could protest, he could feel the blunt end of the Sig smack the base of his skull, and then the world went dark.


	15. Chapter 15

_Three months ago_

 

_Pain.  Excruciating, unfathomable, burning on his face and chest and hands—or was it just a hand now?  There was real burning, too, real flames, and that meant more pain—_

_There was the realization that he’d been beaten.  That burned and pained him just as bad as the fire and the blast and the blood dripping off him in hot waves._

_He shoved pain away.  He didn’t fear it, though he could feel it.  Even in his disoriented state, he still had his brilliant mind, and if he was right, he had 30 seconds._

_Yes, 30—he was remembering now.  A bottle, a blast, and fire.  Screams and heat.  Betrayal he hadn’t expected.  He’d never thought for a second that Sherlock would risk them all in this gamble.  He’d assumed the tea was the extent of Sherlock’s half-arsed treachery._

_There would 30 seconds—now 29—where they were all temporarily deafened by the sound of the explosion.  Mycroft was on the floor, feigning death for the next 7 seconds.  John and the Queen were on the ground moaning.  Idiots.  Sherlock—somewhere._

_Enough red fire and black smoke to hide in.  Jim withdrew into the flames and located the window._

_Pain he could control.  It wasn’t important.  He threw himself out of the window, expecting a long fall.  Instead he hit something—platform.  Ladder.  She’d prepared.  How thoughtful._

_He clumsily made his way down, blinded by the blood in his eyes, and hit the ground._

_“Explosion,” he called out to her, unable to hear if she responded.  There was a sudden blast of heat, smaller than the first, and Jim smiled as he felt heavy footsteps and dragging on the ground next to him.  Up the ladder she went, and presumably, up went the body._

_His hearing started to clear up, even though he couldn’t see.  Sirens were whirring on the other side of the palace.  He briefly wished that he could hear what was going on in the room above._

_A gunshot—not his gun, not Moran’s.  Sherlock’s then?  Sherlock’s._

_Moran was dead, then.  He rolled onto his side with a moan until he felt cool pressure on his back._

_“Jim?  Can you hear me?”_

_“Damage?” he choked out, and he felt her hands checking over his body for injuries._

_“Third-degree burns, lost right hand, I think you lost at least one eye…your face…” She heaved him up with two arms underneath his armpits, making him scream when his skin singed further into the tattered fabrics of his suit.  He lost consciousness quickly with the faint sounds of her ordering his driver to take them to his doctor._

* * *

 

A throbbing pain at the base of his skill and the slice of sunlight through his eyelids woke John with an uneasy jolt.  He blinked, finding himself staring up at the sun, and struggled to sit up straight.

 

Something was holding him back—handcuffs, or zip ties, or rope.  To save his shoulders the trouble, he attempted to roll onto his side and shuffle himself to a kneeling position, ignoring his protesting leg.

 

“John?”

 

“ _Sherlock_!” he croaked.

 

“Over here.”

 

John flipped over and saw him only a short distance away, also on his side and struggling with bonds behind his back.  When their eyes connected across the space, Sherlock stopped and fixed his gaze on John, a thousand questions whirring in his mind.  He opened his mouth and chose one.  “Are you all right?”

 

“I’m alive.  You?”

 

“Fine.”  With a heavy grunt, Sherlock shouldered his way up to a sitting position and surveyed their location.  “We’re on a rooftop.  I think St. Bart’s.”

 

“What happened?”

 

“Don’t remember.”

 

“Can you free your hands?”

 

Sherlock concentrated behind his back.  “Hand cuffs.  I’d have to find a pin, or a key…”

 

“Bloody _hell_ …” John shook his head and pushed himself up off the ground.  “Moriarty.  Where is he?  Did you see him?  Did he bring you here?”

 

“N-no, I haven’t—” Sherlock stopped speaking and listened, instantly alert.  John could suddenly hear it too—footfalls on a set of steps leading up to the roof, the rusty squeak of the door—and he braced himself to see Moriarty.

 

“Boys?” a small voice asked, and John relaxed in relief.  Molly Hooper opened the small door to the roof, still in her lab coat and side ponytail, and widened her eyes when she saw them.

 

“Molly,” he said gratefully.  “Molly, Moriarty’s here—you need to run, call Mycroft—d’you have a hair pin on you?”

 

She looked at John carefully, quizzically, and he felt his stomach drop.  “Jim,” she called down the stairs in a voice both cold and clipped, “they’re awake.”

 

* * *

 

 

_Four months ago—Moriarty’s headquarters_

_“Enough small talk,” Jim said.  He stared intently at the fireplace and wished he hadn’t just smashed his teacup against the wall.  Reaching over to take her teacup and taking a long sip, he relaxed and said, “I require a service of yours.”_

_“I told you—whatever you need.”_

_“I’ve reason to believe that Sherlock and Mycroft are constructing a back-up plan, shrouded in the utmost secrecy.  I can only guess at what it is—based on where we’ll be and the people involved, I see seven different scenarios that I have to prepare for,” he explained._

_“Where do I come in?”_

_“I’ve found ways to work around all the different possibilities of them trying to kill me.  It’s really just a matter of smoke and mirrors, with a dash of physics,” he said with a chuckle.  “However, if they’re going to pull something on me last-minute, I’m quite keen on letting them believe they’ve killed me until it’s convenient to reveal that they were quite wrong.  Meaning I’m going to need a body.”_

_Molly Hooper smiled across from him and took her teacup back.  “I’m good with bodies.”_

_“I know.”  Jim looked down and noticed the riding crop she’d kept on her lap during their conversation.  “Nice riding crop, by the way.  I heard you give my guard quite a beating outside.”_

_“It’s Sherlock’s,” she said, showing him the SH engraved on the black leather.  “He left it in the mortuary.”_

 

* * *

 

 

“Molly—”

 

“It took them long enough,” the high voice of Moriarty replied as he ascended the steps.  “I was beginning to think Johnny was too old for this sort of thing.  So glad he proved me wrong—and I even get to see the big reveal!”

 

“What’s going on?” John asked, crouching next to Sherlock.  “Molly?”

 

Molly didn’t answer him.  She only kept looking at him, empty and cold.  Moriarty finally emerged and clasped his hands together.  “Well!” he said happily.  “This is such a lovely little get-together, isn’t it?  Hullo again, Sherlock.”

 

“Not dead, I see.”

 

“Not by a long shot.  Full marks for effort, though,” Moriarty said with a shrug.  “What, aren’t you curious how I did it?  I know it’s not right for villains to monologue, but I do have the upper hand with six snipers and a rather brilliant accomplice, so I don’t see why I shouldn’t.”

 

John groaned.  “Molly, you didn’t.  You _couldn’t_.”

 

“But you should be _proud_ of her!” Moriarty insisted.  “Timid little Molly Hooper—even I’m proud.  Taking her destiny into her own hands like that.  No one suspects mousy Molly Hooper—not even _you_ , Sherlock Holmes.”

 

“Molly,” Sherlock said, “whatever he’s threatening you with…whatever he’s got on you, let us help.”

 

Molly actually cracked a smile at that.  “I don’t think you’re in a position to help anyone, Sherlock.  Not anymore.”

 

“Sorry, but am I the only one not getting this?” John asked.  “Seriously, Molly?  What the hell is going on?”

 

Moriarty rolled his eyes.  “Kitten’s been against you for quite a while.  Nearly since the beginning.  Oh, it’s nothing to do with _you_ , John.  Mostly it’s to do with Sherlock.  Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned and all that.”

 

“You…joined Moriarty…because you were angry that Sherlock _didn’t fancy you_?”

 

“Nothing so simple,” she said.  “Do you have any idea how smart I am, John?  Did you ever bother to figure that out?  Or did you just brush me off?  Sherlock certainly did.  Jim’s right—mousy Molly Hooper.  No one ever realizes,” she said with a shaky breath, “what _I_ can do.”

 

“Good thing I did,” Moriarty said.  “Otherwise I’d hardly be alive.  Haven’t you been wondering all day, John?  How I did it?  Come on, you can certainly put it together _now_.  Or at least Sherly can…”

 

“There was a body torn apart in the palace—not your own,” Sherlock deduced.  “Molly faked the records and we never guessed otherwise.”

 

“Dear thing was outside in my car, waiting for the signal.  You were all mewling on the floor for thirty seconds after the explosion—I was able to escape rather easily.”  He smiled fondly at Molly.  “She even left me a ladder.  Sweet girl.  She took one look at the explosion inside and blew up the corpse we had with her dear little chemical set—you didn’t even hear it.  She _even carried the body_ up the ladder and threw it back in.”

 

“I never suspected…” Sherlock said, mouth slack and mind whirring to figure it out, and Molly laughed.

 

“No.  You wouldn’t, would you?”

 

“What’s he giving you, Molly?” John asked.  “Money?  Power?  Fame?  You don’t _mean anything_ to him!  He can’t give you anything!  He’ll kill you when he’s finished with you, same as he does to everyone in time.  We’re your friends, Molly.  You can’t just abandon us.”

 

“No, _this_ is how it’s going to work, John,” she said.  “He gave you the chance to give up in exchange for Sherlock’s life and you ran from it.  Jim’s not interested in that anymore.  So we do something much better.”  She turned to Sherlock and smiled sweetly.  “You’re going to jump.”

 

“What?”

 

“You heard me.  Jump.  Off.  This.  Building,” she said.  “The snipers will get you and John both if you don’t, and I’m sure they’d wait and send a bullet through John first, so you can see how much you failed him before you die.  So you jump.  Off the roof.”  She chuckled.  “Toodle-pip.”

 

Sherlock shook his head slowly.  “What does that do for Jim?”

 

“It kills you,” Moriarty said simply.  “I’m getting a bit tired of seeing you alive, dear.  You double-crossed me, and now you’re going to kill yourself.  It’s really quite simple.”

 

“What happens to John?”

 

“John?” Moriarty asked with a frown.  “Oh, I haven’t really figured that out yet.  What do you think we should do with him, Moll?”

 

“John should live—it was in the original plan, anyway,” she said.  “John lives, the Holmes brothers die.  I’m sure he’ll off himself later anyway.”

 

Moriarty shrugged.  “All right.  I can work with it.  John lives if you jump, Sherly—but he most certainly will die if you don’t.”

 

“No,” John growled.  “Just—no.  I don’t care if I die, I could care less, but he’s not jumping off anything.”

 

“John—”

 

“No, Sherlock, shut it.  You’re not going to kill yourself for me.  Moriarty won’t let me live even if you do.  This is all a game, it’s a power play.  It’s using our weaknesses against us when they should be strengths.  There is _still_ a play we can make!”

 

“Oh, just kill yourself,” Moriarty said.  “It’s a lot easier.  We’ll be up here all day, bickering and arguing about who should kill who.  If you kill yourself, I’ll let John go this minute.  I’ll never touch him again.  Scout’s honor.”

 

“He’s _lying_ , Sherlock!  Can’t you _see_ that?” John shouted.

 

“If you do nothing, you’ll both be shot in the head right now.  _That’s_ a promise.”

 

Sherlock’s head swiveled from Moriarty to Molly to John, and John could see his brain racing to consider every possible conclusion.  “How long do I have?”

 

“I’ll be generous and give you a minute.”

 

“And John Watson will not be harmed?”

 

“I promise.”

 

“Prove it.  Let him go right now.”

 

Moriarty frowned.  “That’s not how this negotiation works.  We do the ordering, you see.”

 

“You said you’d find it preferable for me to kill myself and John to live, a broken man.  You have the option of killing us both immediately, but you haven’t…I _know_ you, Jim…” Sherlock said softly.  “You prefer dramatics, every time.  I promise to jump if you promise to let him live.  Uncuff him, let him leave Bart’s.  Let him leave the country.  Never touch him again.”

 

“I’m _not going to fucking do that_!” John screamed.  He wished he could break free of the handcuffs, but since he couldn’t, he shoved Sherlock with his shoulder and made him face him.  “Do you hear me?   I’m not _leaving you_ , I’m not letting you die, not after everything we’ve fucking been through, you prick!  You’re not going to do this—I’d rather we died together than live a life without you, and _you know that_.”

 

Sherlock smiled.  “In this scenario, your safety outweighs your personal happiness.  Jim, that’s my only offer.”

 

“You’re going to have to kill me, too, because I’ll just keep coming back!” John insisted.

 

“You’re really not going to leave?”

 

“I’m staying right here,” John said. 

 

“Well.  Then I’ll have to trust Moriarty and chance it,” Sherlock replied, and he backed away and stepped onto the ledge. 

 

“ _NO!_ ” John screeched, frantically pulling to get his hands out of the cuffs so he could pull Sherlock off.  “You _bastard_ , you _cannot_ do this!  Moriarty, I swear, if you don’t—”

 

“Hush, now, Johnny, I’m enjoying this,” Moriarty said.  He crossed his arms with a face-splitting smile.  “This is better than telly.”

 

“John, I don’t have much time, so I’ll just say it quickly,” Sherlock said, wobbling on the edge of the roof without the added balance of his arms.  “If…if all I got was these three days, with you, it’s all been worth it.  Every moment.”

 

“You’re not doing this, you’re _not_ saying goodbye—”

 

“And you should know that I—I love you, deeply, more than you can ever guess.”

 

John hesitated, not wanting to agree to anything Sherlock was doing or saying, but his mouth betrayed him.  “I can, you git.  I love you the same.”

 

“Then you must know that I am sorry, _so sorry_ , for what I’m about to do—and everything that led up to it.”  Sherlock spared an apologetic glance his way.  “I’m sorry for everything.”

 

John sighed, feeling the moment tense up and slow down.  The entire rooftop stilled, and for a second Molly’s betrayal and Moriarty’s evil were out of the picture.  It was only Sherlock in front of John, beautiful and perfect, and about to cause him more pain than he’d ever felt in his life.

 

“I forgive you,” he whispered.  “Of course I forgive you—the leg—the explosion—the hospital—everything.  It’s all fine.”

 

Sherlock smiled and stepped one foot over the edge.


	16. Chapter 16

“Sherlock, _stop!_ ”

 

John was surprised that the words didn’t come out of his own mouth, and evidently, so was Sherlock.  He toppled over, centimeters from falling off the roof, and John thought fast.  Placing all his weight on his good leg, he jumped onto the ledge with Sherlock and shoved him back onto the roof with a well-placed blow of his shoulder.  Sherlock fell back to the rooftop with a grunt and John fell with him, landing on top.

 

“Stop!” Mycroft repeated from the doorway.  John looked up in shock to see both Mycroft and Greg, white with terror, on the threshold of the rooftop.

 

Moriarty, who by all rights should have been angry that Sherlock’s suicide had been interrupted, clapped his hands together gleefully.  “Hello, Mycroft, my dear.  I can’t tell you how terribly pleased I am to see you—or how late you are.”

 

“ _Molly_ ,” gasped Greg.  “Molly, are you all right?”

 

Molly gaped at his entrance and then looked directly down, shuffling closer to Moriarty for protection.

 

“Kitten, ignore him.  He’s worthless at this point,” Moriarty said, turning her away from Greg’s pained gaze. 

 

“You—you were working with _him_?” Greg asked.  “This whole time?  Molly—how could you do that???”

 

Molly bit her lip and continued to look down to avoid his eyes.  “It was necessary, Greg.”

 

“Necessary?  _How the bloody hell was this necessary_?  I _love_ you, you lying—”

 

“Greg, please,” Mycroft said, tugging his arm to quiet him.  “It’s not the time for it.”  Greg opened his mouth to protest but shut it immediately, filing in behind Mycroft and glaring in Molly’s direction like his gaze could set her on fire.

 

“Miss Hooper,” Mycroft said, addressing her, “it would seem that I’m a bit late to the party, but I can assume that you’ve been working with Moriarty for quite some time.”

 

“Old news, Mycroft,” Moriarty said.  “We already went over this, and it’s not our fault you weren’t here for the explanation.”

 

“You needn’t go over it again—I deduced it all in the car on the way here.  Greg and I were just passing through to check on my baby brother when we got the call that John had been compromised, and when Miss Hooper and my brother were missing from the mortuary... Well, we put it all together.”

 

“I’m not interested in what clever thing you _think_ you’ve figured out, Mycroft.  I could snap my fingers and order your death before you could say, ‘God save the Queen.’ ”

 

Mycroft smiled grimly.  “No… I don’t think you can.”

 

“What?” Moriarty chuckled.  “Are you going to talk me out of it?”

 

“No.  It’s too late for you.  But perhaps not for Miss Hooper.  Molly,” he said softly, “you’re not too far gone.  There’s still a chance for you to join us instead of him.”

 

“And why would I want to do that?” Molly said.  “He’s beaten you, fair and square.  He recognizes my…potential.  Not like any of you ever did.”

 

“Oh, Molly, you might be clever— _very_ clever, in fact—but that doesn’t change the basics of who you are.  Who you’ve always been.  You saved Moriarty’s life and helped him escape all those months ago.”

 

“Yes.”

 

Mycroft grinned.  “Even on the other side of the law, you cannot help but help others.  Even when making a deal with the devil, you _save_ instead of destroy.  Unless I’m wrong, you haven’t killed anyone—oh, no, you’ve plotted and schemed and faked records, but not killed anyone yet.  You’re not like Moriarty, deep down.  Moriarty prefers chaos.  What you want is recognition.”

 

Molly looked at him, anger and confusion playing in her eyes, and she said, “Bold words for a man Jim can have killed.”

 

“That’s where you’d be wrong.  Though that did take me a little longer to figure out.  Sherlock, if you will…”

 

Sherlock raised an eyebrow from his position on the ground and supplied, “The files I sent out.  The ones that put Irene in danger.”

 

Molly frowned.  “What does he mean?”

 

“Sherlock sent all the information in Moriarty’s arsenal on his associates to the police and other pertinent people.  In the past three months, his best agents have been compromised.”  Mycroft held his arms out, in free view of anyone who wanted to look—or shoot.  “I’m calling your bluff, _Jim_.  You don’t have anyone you can call to kill us. Otherwise, how are we all still alive?”

 

A focused red dot appeared on Moriarty’s forehead.  He looked up at it ang giggled hysterically.  “

 “Checkmate.  I must thank you, Jim—you’ve given me quite a puzzle to work with today.  Nearly had me going for a moment there.”

 

Moriarty glowered where he stood.  “You’ve forgotten I had someone on hand to shoot Irene Adler through the head.  And I had a man to capture John.”

 

“Freelance assassins.  Hire-for-a-day.  I had them…persuaded not to work with you again.  I can be a persuasive man. I even took the liberty of checking the picture you sent Miss Adler.  Taken months ago and filed away for later use.  You’re a spider without a web, Moriarty,” he said.  “A parasite feeding off Miss Hooper and other bugs.  But she can leave you now if she wishes.”

 

John shook his head.  “Brilliant.”

 

Greg took a step forward.  “Molly, you can leave him!  Please, just stop this and come back.  You can’t have been lying about everything.”

 

“Miss Hooper, if you won’t do it for your own sake, do it for Greg’s,” Mycroft said.  “He adores you…  I don’t believe you were lying when you said you cared for him, too.  You just got in with the wrong people.  It’s not too late.”

 

Molly looked from Moriarty to Mycroft to Greg, chewing at her bottom lip.  “I don’t think I can.  I’m sorry.”

 

“Molly, _please_.”  Greg took another tentative step toward her and held out a hand. 

 

With a groan, Moriarty reached inside his own suit with his good hand.  He pulled out a small handgun and aimed it at Molly’s head.  “Thanks for everything, dear, but next time, don’t hesitate when someone offers you a way out.”

 

Greg screamed and Moriarty shot her cleanly in the chest.  He stumbled forward to catch Molly when she swayed and fell, and another shot tore through the air and hit Moriarty.  Both crumpled to the ground.

 

“ _Molly_ —Molly, please, you can’t— _Mycroft, help me!_ ” Greg screamed over Molly’s jerking body.  “Fuck, fuck, run down into the hospital, get a doctor!  She’s dying!”

 

John and Sherlock were frozen in their position on the rooftop, watching their friend hold the swiftly-bleeding-out body of someone they’d assumed was their friend and trusted companion for the past year.  Mycroft stood speechless, only watching Molly’s body go cold.

 

“Fuck…” John said.  “Just…fuck.”

 

Without responding, Mycroft walked over to Moriarty’s body, already cooling on the roof, and fished through his pockets for handcuff keys.  He walked to the couple on the ground, expressionless, and released them.

 

Sherlock pounced on John first, wrapping his arms around him as soon as he was free and pulling him crushingly close.  “I’m so sorry,” he murmured.  “Forgive me.  That was…unimaginably stupid of me.”

 

John relished the embrace, but with a sigh he pulled away.  “We’ll talk about it later.  Now’s not the time.”

 

Mycroft was hovering over Greg’s shoulder and he sobbed openly over Molly’s body, one hand out to comfort that refused to land.  “Greg…” he said quietly.  “She’s…”

 

“I _fucking know_.”

 

“All right.”  Mycroft bit his lip before putting his hand on Greg’s shoulder.

 

Sherlock helped John over to them and they slowly pulled her body out of his hands.  Sherlock couldn’t tear his eyes off Molly, and John knew exactly what was going through his head.  It was going through his own head as well, but it was best that Greg didn’t see them staring.  He nudged Sherlock to stop.

 

Greg clasped Mycroft’s hand on his shoulder.  “Is he dead?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“For real this time?  Because you fucked up the last time you tried to kill him.”

 

“He’s dead, Lestrade,” Sherlock confirmed, and Greg nodded through his tears.

 

“You said…you said she was working for him… How long did you know?”

 

“Only since the car ride over here.  I didn’t want to tell you until I was sure.”

 

“Right,” Greg sniffed.  He suddenly looked very angry and rubbed the tears off his cheeks.  “Of course.  Everyone bloody knew but me.  My own _girlfriend_ , and all this time, all these months, she was laughing at me, thinking how she had me fooled.  She probably told _him_ all about it.”

 

“I think she genuinely loved you,” Mycroft said gently.  “She was torn, at the end.

“You have to say that.”  Greg sat back on his feet and took a huge gasp of air.  “What do we do now?”

 

“I’ll have people clean…er, _this_ up.  We’ll go back to my house.”

 

“Will you…will you tell people…?”

 

“No one will know what happened up here,” Mycroft promised darkly.  “As far as anyone else is concerned, James Moriary died months ago at Buckingham Palace and Molly Hooper was the victim of an unfortunate accident—perhaps she was defending someone from an attacker…”

 

Greg shook his head.  “She doesn’t deserve it after all she’s done.”

 

“Whatever you wish, Greg.  This day never happened on official record.”  Mycroft nodded to Sherlock and John.  “My car.  Let’s go.”

 

“Can I…I need a minute,” Greg said, looking longingly at Molly’s body.

 

“Of course.”  Mycroft got up to leave and offered a hand to John, who braced himself against Sherlock and Mycroft’s hand to get up without his cane.  The three made their way to the door until Greg’s voice stopped them.  “Mycroft…could you stay with me, for a bit?  I don’t want…I don’t want to be alone up here with them.”

 

 

 

 

When asked about it later, Sherlock would swear that he’d never seen Mycroft look so pained or vulnerable than he was in that moment.

 

 

 

 

“Of course,” he repeated.  “Can you manage, John?”

 

“I’ve got him,” Sherlock answered for him.

 

He nodded in thanks and walked slowly back to Greg, who was still kneeling down close to the bodies, and Sherlock helped John off the roof and down into the hospital.

 

“Greg,” he said, “It _will_ be all right.  I can arrange that.  I’m…unaccustomed to offering comfort in situations like these, but….”

 

Greg smiled through his still-running tears and turned to look at Mycroft.  “I’m going to have to teach you everything, aren’t I?”

 

* * *

 

John’s leg was screaming in pain by the time they’d gone all the way down the stairs and down to Mycroft’s waiting car—Sherlock had wanted to take an elevator, but without Molly’s cover in the mortuary, Sherlock would be easily recognized at Bart’s, and John didn’t want to risk recognition after they’d escaped death so narrowly.  He all but collapsed when Sherlock opened the door to the car and shoved him inside.

 

Immediately Sherlock’s arms were around him again, and he found his nose buried in Sherlock’s shoulder.  “You sure are cuddly after near-death experiences,” he attempted weakly, but Sherlock only shook his head.

 

“That was too close.  It all happened too quickly…”

 

“Yes.  It did.  I never want to be surprised like that again.  Moriarty…”

 

“He’s really dead, this time.  But that’s only through Mycroft’s cleverness.  I’ve no idea how he survived the explosion in the first place, even if Molly _did_ have an extra body prepared to replace him.”

 

John shrugged.  “He must have known.  He must have prepared.  It doesn’t matter.  The case is over—if there ever really was one.  Your brother’s out of danger.”

 

Sherlock rolled his eyes.  “Mycroft’s never out of danger.  He’s such an idiot, even when he’s smart.  I’ve got to get him to work on clearing my name so we can come back to London full-time and I can keep an eye on him.”

 

“Sherlock,” John said firmly, “you were going to jump.”

 

“Of course.  You were going to offer yourself to him.  How could I have let him kill you?”

 

“How could I have lived if you’d killed yourself right in front of me?” John asked.  “Seriously, we’ve got to…I dunno, we need to be prepared the next time that happens.  It’s obvious to everyone what our pressure points are.  Magnussen will be after us next.”

 

“Don’t be so sure.  That’s only if we poke at him again.”  Sherlock pulled away from John and cradled his face in his hands.  “Do you really forgive me?  I mean, what you said on the roof—was that just the spur-of-the-moment, don’t-want-him-to-feel-guilty-unto-death thing to say?”

 

John chuckled warmly.  “Of course I meant it.  It’s all forgiven.  You nearly killed yourself for the chance of my safety.  I don’t know how that doesn’t wipe out your other offenses.”

 

“I would think it would add to them.”

 

“It just proved that you’ll never walk away from me like you did, once.  That’s all I needed.”  John leaned forward and kissed him gently.  “Where will we go?”

 

“Not New York.”

 

“Not New York, right.”  John settled back into his seat and frowned.  “Molly just died.  Right in front of us.”

 

“Yes.”

 

“And how does that make us feel?”

 

Sherlock frowned.  “I hadn’t thought about it.  I was too focused on the fact that you were still alive.”

 

“She was our _friend_ ,” John reasoned.  “I can’t believe…I can’t believe she’d ever do that.  I just can’t imagine it for a moment.  Not our Molly.  Not the Molly I know.  Knew.”  He clenched his fists.  “Poor Greg.  He was just getting his life back together after the divorce, after the bomb, after everything.  She made him happy.”

 

“She might have been playing him.”

 

“Maybe she wasn’t.  Greg had nothing to do with Moriarty or his plan.  Maybe he was separate.”

 

“We’ll never know for sure.  All I know is that she was willing to help Moriarty and go along with the plan to have me killed, so I’m more angry than sad at this point,” Sherlock reasoned, “and yet…she suggested that Moriarty let you live.  So I suppose I am grateful to her for that.”

 

“Fuck.  I’m going to need to go back to a therapist,” John said sadly.  “My boyfriend’s a sociopath who battled against me with the most evil man in the world, and one of my closest friends did the same thing.  I need a support group.”

 

“I thought you’d forgiven me for that.”

 

“I _have_.  I’m just saying the scenarios I endure for England’s sake are strikingly similar.”

 

Sherlock opened his mouth to respond, but he saw Mycroft leaving the building with Greg in tow and shut up.

 

John spied them, too.  “Greg’s coming in.  Don’t say anything insensitive.”

 

“She was _my_ friend, too.”

 

“Just a friendly reminder.”

 

Mycroft opened the door and Greg slid inside, staring morosely ahead when John tried to greet him, and then he followed, ordering the driver to take them all home.


	17. Chapter 17

John woke up tense, unsure of where he was.  He tightened his grip on whatever he was holding, which happened to be Sherlock’s sleeping body.

 

He was in Mycroft’s den—he remembered now.  They’d all come back silently (except for Sherlock, who wanted to discuss everything that had happened until John gave him a death glare) and had a few pints before collapsing onto couches with barely a word said between them.  It seemed to be all they could handle.

 

John relaxed when he realized where he was and settled back onto Sherlock’s chest, listening to his easy breathing.  Who needed a shock blanket when a warm body was around?

 

Greg was in a chair by himself, chin in his hand, snoring softly.  John scanned the rest of the room, lit dimly by a dying fire in the fireplace, and saw Mycroft at his desk, hands folded and pressed to his lips as if in prayer.  He noticed John looking at him.  “All right?”

 

“Yeah.  You?”

 

“As well as can be expected.”

 

John nodded and carefully extricated his limbs from Sherlock’s tight hold.  He climbed off the couch where they’d been curled up and stretched before walking over to Mycroft.  “You haven’t slept a wink.”

 

“I’ve had too much to do,” Mycroft explained.  “I dispatched a disposal team, collaborated with Anthea and a few witnesses on a cover story, planted evidence to vindicate Miss Hooper... It’s been an involved process.”

 

“You’re going to make sure no one knows what she did?”

 

“Miss Hooper was a very intelligent but very confused woman who placed her trust in the wrong man,” Mycroft said.

 

“Pretty generous of you.”  John glanced at Greg on the chair.  “It’s because of him, isn’t it?”

 

“I don’t know to what you’re referring.”

 

“You wouldn’t just cover someone’s treachery because you felt bad for them.  You’re doing it for Greg.”  John crossed his arms.  “You can tell me.  I think of all people I’d understand.”

 

Mycroft chuckled.  “Actually, I think Sherlock might understand a tad better.  It’s nothing.  We’re friends.  We’ve only spent the past two days together.”

 

“But you like him,” John concluded with a smile.  “At least you’re starting to.  Come on, you can’t deny it to me.  I’m the closest you can get to normal here.”

 

Mycroft swallowed and said, “I…find him _interesting_.  And with my intellect, I find no one interesting.  And he’s a kind man, loyal to a fault.  An exceptionally good person who deserves better than a traitorous girlfriend.”

 

“Meaning he should turn to you?”

 

“Clearly not.  I am not the ideal man for a relationship with anyone.  Especially not a straight man whose significant other just died.”

 

“I wouldn’t be so sure.  It might be nice for you to have someone, Mycroft.  You deserve it.  Sherlock worries about you, you know,” he said.  “He thinks you get lonely.”

 

“I am not _lonely_.”

 

“How would you know?” John asked.  “I’d give it a while, of course.  Give him time to grieve.  But maybe you could…ask him for coffee or something.  Trust me, coming from a man who thought he was straight as a ruler for decades, sometimes all it takes is one person to change it.”

 

Mycroft couldn’t suppress a sneer.  “Sherlock and I both assumed you were gay when we met you.”

 

“Well, sometimes you get things _wrong_ ,” John said.  “I’ve never liked blokes.  I just love Sherlock.  I can’t explain it at all but at the very least I’m happy.  And I think you deserve to be happy, too.”

 

Before Mycroft could respond, Sherlock jolted awake and clutched at the air where John’s body was. “ _John_?”

 

“Right here, Sherlock,” John called to him.

 

“What happens now?” Sherlock asked.  “What do we do?”

 

“You’ll need to leave town.  The sooner the better,” Mycroft decided.  “I can work on getting you a pardon.  It will probably take some time and some serious string-pulling, but I expect within the year you can move back to Baker Street.”

 

Sherlock frowned.  “How can you get a pardon for things that I’ve done in a room full of witnesses?”

 

“I’ll have to collaborate,” Mycroft answered thoughtfully.  He tapped his chin and sighed.  “Magnussen will have information I can use.  If I barter for it.”

 

“Blackmail?”

 

“There’s nothing else that will work, if you two want to get back to London.  Or perhaps I can have him print the true story of what happened with Moriarty—edited a bit, of course.  If we can get enough people to believe the truth, blackmail might be unnecessary.”

 

“What about us, then?” John asked, grasping Sherlock’s hand.  “Where do we go?”

 

“Wherever you like.  We might have a summer home somewhere on an island.  Perhaps Tahiti.”

 

Sherlock groaned and shook his head.  “Too small.  Boring.  I need _work_ , or my brain will rot.”

 

“Jamaica, then.  Or somewhere in the states.  You’re welcome to stay for the rest of the week, the both of you, but you really should be out of the country before you’re found out.  Just because you’ve a new wardrobe and haircut,” Mycroft mused, “doesn’t mean you’re completely safe.”

 

Greg stirred in his chair and awoke with a start, eyes flickering all over the room before resting on Mycroft’s face and relaxing minutely.  “Was I out long?”

 

“Only a few hours.  I’ve made the proper arrangements for everything,” Mycroft assured him, and John was astonished to hear a small change in Mycroft’s voice—it was lighter, less calculating and smug and infinitely more comforting.  He’d never heard Mycroft speak like that before.

 

He cleared his throat.  “I think Sherlock and I are going to go to the kitchen and see if we can whip something up.  Or maybe we’ll order in.”

 

“I’m _not hungry_ ,” Sherlock whined.  “Besides, Mycrofts has a butler and a cook—”

 

“ _Sherlock_.”  John tugged him by the hem of his shirt out of the room, leaving Mycroft and Greg alone.

 

 

Greg shuffled out of his seat, discarding the blanket someone had thoughtfully placed on him, and walked to the edge of Mycroft’s desk.  “Someone went and got her?”

 

“She’s in the morgue at Bart’s.  I’m having…well, some people are taking care of the evidence.  It’ll look like she was defending a small boy, Peter Griffiths, from assault.”  Mycroft opened his laptop and clicked away until a picture and profile of the boy was brought up.  “Street urchin, 12 years old.  We’re putting him in someone’s care in exchange for telling this story to the police.”

 

“That’s…well, that’s not exactly _good_ , but it’s kind.  Her family will feel better hearing it.”

 

“I’m so sorry,” Mycroft repeated.  “I know how much it must grieve you.”

 

“It fucking sucks,” he agreed.

 

“I’m sure you two would have been very happy.”

 

Greg smiled sadly and shook his head.  “You know, you kept saying that.  Earlier today—or yesterday,” he amended, seeing the early hour on the clock, “you kept saying fiancée.  We weren’t engaged yet.  We’d only been dating three months.”

 

“Oh?  I assumed…you’d been seeing each other longer.  Since you’d moved in together.”

 

“I reckon that must have been her plan.  She wanted to ensure we didn’t suspect her.  You know, for the rest of my life I’m going to wonder if she ever genuinely liked me or if it was all a game.”

 

Mycroft didn’t have an answer for that.  “I can have people remove everything that belonged to her from your house.  If that suits you.”

 

“N-no, I should do it,” Greg said.  “I think I should.  But not yet.”

 

“Then you’ll stay here.”

 

“I can’t keep putting you out, Mycroft.”

 

“At least for the time being.  There are plenty of rooms…” Mycroft heard the echo of John’s suggestion to ask him out for coffee in his head.  He reasoned it was far too soon to bring that up.  “It’s what any friend would do.”

 

“That might be nice.  Yeah.”  Greg smiled and clapped a hand on his shoulder.  “Thanks, Mycroft.”

 

“It’s nothing.”

 

“What do you suppose the boys are doing, then?”

 

“I fear our entire friendship will be centered around that question.”

 

“Don’t say _that_ ,” Mycroft joked weakly.  “There’s cake, too.”


	18. Chapter 18

_18 months later_

They’d ultimately decided on New Orleans.  It wasn’t an island, which John would have honestly preferred in light of everything they’d been through, but it was warmer than London and there was plenty of crime to occupy Sherlock.

 

New Orleans was nothing like London.  The heat was muggy, jazz music squeaked out of every corner, and most houses were some pastel shade of yellow, pink, or blue.  It was an entirely different world.  But after a few months of adjusting, John had grown to like it.

 

Sherlock adored it, surprisingly enough.  He could be persuaded to try the spicier food and fish fare of the city, and the history fascinated him.  He already had a thriving homeless network, and even though the police force wasn’t amenable to Sherlock’s assistance, he had his own private practice finding kidnapped or murdered victims.

 

Another thing that both men admitted to loving was the new clothes that they had to acquire in New Orleans.  John had to shed his jumpers and jeans in the heat, and even though Sherlock had clung to his silk shirts and tight trousers, eventually he gave them up.  It was tee shirts and shorts for the most part, which embarrassed them at first until they realized how much easier to was to envision what they looked like under their clothes when they weren’t so covered up.

 

They had a lot of sex in New Orleans.  Especially when it was too hot to do anything outside of bed.  In fact, that was exactly what John wanted to do today, and the idea of spending the night with Sherlock permeated his thoughts as he went through his day.  Sherlock had been out, collecting evidence for his newest case, and he’d been left in their flat to clean up the remains of the last experiment and plan for dinner.

 

His phone rang when he was rifling through the fridge for something edible.  He’d half-hoped it was Sherlock, saying he’d be home early, and his stomach clenched when he was it was Mycroft.

 

He picked up his mobile.  “Afternoon, Mycroft.  Well, I suppose it’s evening over there.  Everything all right?”

 

“Why do you always assume something’s wrong?” Mycroft asked.  “Our conversations have increased in their social content.”

 

“That’s only because you keep asking for relationship advice—and I always emphasize that I am the exact _wrong_ person to ask for advice.”

 

“You’ve managed so far.  Of the four of us, you’ve had the most success in that department.”

 

He sighed.  “Are you calling for advice right now?”

 

“Only partially.  I have good news I want to tell you first.” 

 

John could hear a smile on the other end and gripped his mobile tighter.  “Yeah?”

 

“You’ll be able to come home within the month.”

 

“ _…Really_?”

 

“I’ve sorted it—it’s taken me months, mind you.  Lots of bribes, lots of reminders that I can do a whole lot of nasty, disagreeable things to people in power if they don’t investigate the whole Moriarty affair of last year.  Magnussen is coming out with the groundbreaking story on Sunday: ‘Sherlock Undercover—His Greatest Case Yet.’  Of course, we had to tweak a few details, but when it hits newsstands, the government will have no choice but to look into the events that took place.  The public will cry out for Sherlock Holmes and his companion.”

 

John smiled into the phone.  “Seriously?”

 

“You’re quite welcome, Dr. Watson.”

 

“Er, thank you— _thank_ you.  I can’t wait to—I need to tell Sherlock,” John said.  He looked around the flat with a worried frown and added, “If I can find him, that is.”

 

Mycroft chuckled.  The faint sound of typing could be heard over the phone.  “St. Louis Cemetery No. 1.”

 

“What, are you tracking him through his phone or something?”

 

“Sometimes I talk to my brother, John.  He happened to inform me that he spends his afternoons there when he finishes up casework.  Something about the dead always fascinated him…”

 

“Right, then.  I’ll give it a look.  And you said you needed advice?”

 

“Oh—yes,” Mycroft said, and his voice grew to the semi-hushed, dreamier tone that seemingly only ever came out when he talked to or about Greg.  “Well, it’s just…Well, this is sort of…I don’t quite know how to say this without sounding completely vulgar.”

 

John tried to hold back a laugh and failed.  “You’re, erm, taking another step in your relationship?  A more physical one?”

 

“Correct.”

 

“What are you confused over?  You’ve done it before, right?”

 

“Of _course_ ,” Mycroft hissed.  “It’s just…he hasn’t.”

 

“I hadn’t either, before Sherlock.  It’s different, but I’m positive Greg will be a fast learner.”  John shook his head.  “I can’t believe I’m saying this.  I can’t believe you and I are talking about this.”

 

“You don’t think we’re moving too fast, do you?” Mycroft asked.

 

“Er, no, not really.  I mean, you two visited at Christmas, and that was…six months ago, and you two had just gotten together then—wait, you haven’t had sex yet?  In six months of being together?”

 

“I want to be… _delicate_ about this whole thing,” Mycroft insisted.  “The funeral was only last year.”

 

“You’re right,” John agreed.  “I’m sorry.  Just—I dunno, just use some candles and mood music.  It won’t be a problem, trust me.”

 

“Who’re you talking to, then?” John could hear Greg in the background and Mycroft scrambling to seem like he hadn’t just been talking to John about his sex life.  “Is that John?  Put him on speaker, will you?”

 

“Of course.”  After a brief fumbling on the other end, Greg and Mycroft’s voices were magnified in John’s ear.

 

“Hey, mate—Mycroft told me the good news this afternoon!  Brilliant, that.”

 

“I’ll be mailing you your plane tickets tomorrow morning,” Mycroft said.  “I’ve a busy evening, but rest assured they’re on the top of my list tomorrow.”

 

“Yeah, yeah, that’s fine,” John said.  “Hey, Greg.  It’s nice to talk to you again.  How’re things?”

 

“A lot slower at the Yard, but I cracked two cases in the past month—might be looking at a promotion,” Greg said proudly.  “Not that I haven’t been looking at more than my fair share in the past year.”

 

“You completely deserved them,” Mycroft argued.

 

“Mycroft, pulling strings to get me a promotion is not the only way you can show affection.  I’d rather earn them on my own.  So, John, you’ll be back soon?  We’ll have to have you over.  My cooking skills have greatly improved.”

 

“Right, I will.  _We_ will.  Sorry, Greg, but I have to go—Sherlock’s wandering around a yard of dead people and I have to fetch him.  Mycroft—it’ll be okay.  Have fun.”

 

“Have fun with what?” Greg asked.

 

“Goodbye, John.  I’ll see you soon,” Mycroft said, and he hung up the phone.

 

John smiled and grabbed his keys before heading out the door.  It was almost disgustingly muggy out today, in the middle of a June haze, but for once John didn’t mind.  He was going _home_.  He couldn’t wait to get back to 221B, to the skull on the mantel and the loud wallpaper and the rain and fog and swirl of London.

 

It didn’t take him long to get to St. Louis Cemetery—it was a tourist destination in the heart of the city.  Even though he knew he should be taking in the sights before he’d never see them again, John had tunnel vision.  He could only keep his mind on Sherlock.

 

True to Mycroft’s guess, he was there, seemingly taking a sample from the bottom corner of one of the mausoleums.

 

“I’m pretty sure you’re not allowed to do that,” John said.  “There are dead people in there.”

 

Sherlock froze, realizing he’d been found, but only smiled in response.  “At this point, all they are is dust.  Unless you hold to the locals’ ludicrous beliefs about voodoo.”

 

“Do you really come here all that often?  Mycroft called and said so, but I had no idea.”

 

“Of course.  I happen to love dead people.  This entire cemetery is full of mysteries,” he said.

 

John shook his head.  “How did I _not_ know one of your favorite places in this city?  Does that make me a bad boyfriend?”

 

“On the contrary, I think it speaks well of our relationship,” Sherlock said, straightening up and kissing John fondly on the cheek.  “There are still things for us to discovery after over a year.”

 

John smiled.  “I have some news.”

 

“Mycroft’s having sex with Greg tonight?  I know.  Don’t make me think about it.”

 

“What—er, no—well, actually, it seems like they will but it’s none of our business,” John blustered.  “No, erm, Mycroft called.  He says we can go home.”

 

Sherlock’s eyebrows nearly jumped off his forehead.  “How’d he manage that?”

 

“You probably know more about his methods than me,” John replied, “but he got Magnussen to print the story.  Hopefully it will get people to pester the government into looking into your sentence, and it’ll be lifted within the week.”

 

“That came with a hefty price tag,” Sherlock said.  “I don’t want to think about what we owe Magnussen now.  And I don’t like owing that man anything.”

 

“That’s not something we should be thinking about.  One day we might have to worry about Magnussen, but not today.  Today’s about…excitement.”  John took Sherlock’s hand and squeezed it.  “Come on, let’s get out of here.  This place creeps me out.”

 

Sherlock tried to protest, but John yanked him out of the cemetery, past groups of sweaty tourists giving offerings at the grave of Marie Laveau.  To celebrate their good news, John decided for the both for them that they’d risk the coronary and get beignets from Café du Monde, one of the most worthwhile tourist traps of New Orleans.  Even though it was almost always crowded with long lines of people aiming for a cup of café au lait and a bag of beignets, the food itself was worth the wait, as long as you exercised it off.

 

The couple spent the long walk over to the café talking about what they’d bring back with them, whether or not their flat would still be furnished, and how they’d break the news to their family and remaining friends.  Once they got their white paper bags of the powdered sugar confections, they sat down in the nearby park.

 

“Mrs. Hudson will be pleased,” John reasoned.  “We didn’t get to see her at all when we went back.  I’ll wager anything she hasn’t let out 221B to anyone else.  And Harry’ll be pleased, too.”

 

“Harry’s back to drinking.  Mycroft checked.”

 

“Well, maybe the sudden disappearance of her brother had something to do with that,” John said.  “You know we’ll have to endure it, right?  Strange as it is.”

 

“I _know_.  It was hard enough when they came to visit.  Completely nauseating,” Sherlock complained.  “Mycroft looks so thoroughly besotted.  And Greg thinks everything he says is brilliant when half of it is nonsense.”

 

“You know, you should be happier for your brother.”

 

“I _am_.  I’m just…well, imagine Harry and Clara having sex.”

 

John grimaced.  “Point taken.”

 

“And with both couples in the same city, Mummy will be waiting for an engagement announcement.  It’ll be a race to the altar.”

 

“Bollocks.  Now you’ll be expecting me to propose.  It’s only been a year and a half.”

 

“I’m not expecting you to do anything.  But Mummy and half of London will.  Besides, who’s to say I’m not the one who’ll propose?”

 

“This conversation is _so_ beyond what I’m prepared to deal with,” John sighed.  He took a thoughtful bite of his beignet and looked at Sherlock, who’d gotten powdered sugar smudged on his nose.  “You’ve got a bit of sugar, love.”

 

“Where?”

 

“Got it.”  John licked his index finger and brushed the powder off Sherlock’s nose.  “Messy eater.”

 

Sherlock grinned, and quite slowly and purposefully, he took another large bite of his beignet and spread the sugar all over his nose and curls.  John groaned and tried to brush it all off, which ended up engaging a sugar battle between the two grown men.  John crushed half his beignet, only slightly lamenting the loss, into Sherlock’s scalp while Sherlock rubbed all the sugar he had on his hands onto John’s cheeks.  The result was too ghostly-white, pastry-smeared men who giggled at the way they looked and suddenly began to kiss each other fervently.

 

“Delicious,” commented Sherlock, kissing a wet streak down John’s cheek.  “I win.”

 

“You always win,” John conceded.  He swung Sherlock’s legs onto his lap and pressed his lips to Sherlock’s mouth, savoring the sweetness left over from their pastry fight.  “There won’t be beignets back home, though.”

 

“No, there won’t,” Sherlock agreed.  “But there’ll be better cases and more room in the fridge for severed heads.  Our current fridge is too small.”

 

“Sherlock…” John almost argued against it, having lived without the severed heads for so long, but he thought the better of it and chuckled instead.

 

“And, of course, there’ll be you,” Sherlock said triumphantly.  “That’s the best part about anywhere I go.  You.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading, everyone. I hope you enjoyed the experience, because I certainly have enjoyed writing this. God bless!


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